Death Comes to Hartfield
by PrettyPet
Summary: When a death shakes Hartfield to its core, how will Emma survive the tragedy? Emma and Isabella, are not seeing eye to eye and cannot agree on anything. What might Mr. Knightley agree to, in order to help Emma's situation? Set near the start of the novel.
1. A Dark Day

**_Death Comes to Hartfield_**

 ** _by PrettyPet_**

Setting: Sometime following Miss Taylor's marriage to Mr. Weston.

 _It begins with a sad event, but I promise it will not be sad the entirety of the story and we get to see Mr. Knightley in a comforting, protective role as the story goes._

 _Enjoy!_

 **Chapter 1**

 **A Dark Day  
**

* * *

It was one of the coldest days of the year when the most dreadful thing Emma could ever have imagined happened. Truly, unlike her sister and her dear Papa, Emma never would have imagined it—she was always too focused on the moment, fixated with a happy optimism which prevented such thoughts from ever being entertained.

Her father, however, would have seen it coming by the same strategy as one who gambled often—if enough predictions were made, there was some certainty of being correct at some point, eventually. It was volume, ratios and statistics. Her dear Papa had considered at length every sickness known to man, and was convince he had contracted most of them at one time or another. A gambling man might say the odds were in his favour.

In the days leading up to the calamity, Mr. Woodhouse had made slight complaint about stomach pain, but nothing above his normal fare. He still took supper with Mr. Knightley. Although he shared about his indigestion freely, there was no extra volume, intensity or length to his mention the abdominal pain than was given to any other issue, real or imagined, that he had experienced in the last 20 years.

Thus Emma was shocked when to her absolute horror she found her dear Papa cold and grey in the early hours of the morning. The maids found her shrieking hysterically; making demands that they fetch Mr. Perry and call Doctor Hughes. She then sailed from the house into the frigid morning air in her nightgown and wrapper. It was cold, but there had been hardly any snow, which made her slippers, while unsuitable and impractical, not completely useless.

She took her childhood foot path that stretched and curved the distance between Donwell and her home. Hot tears against the sharp cold air marred her vision and she was immediately glad she knew the way by heart. Her mind and blurred sight were of little use.

She pounded roughly at Donwell's door, panting heavily as her lungs took respite. Mrs. Hodges opened the door and seeing before her the sobbing, shaking young woman whisked her inside and then she called directly for Mr. Knightley—the master of the house would know what to do.

"Emma you are shaking, what has happened?" his voice broke her into a fresh wave of tears and she could hardly draw breath, let alone speak.

Her body was wracked with crushing sobs. He moved closer to her in an effort to comfort her from whatever pain she was facing—his hand coming to her back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. He had not had much experience consoling women.

"Papa—"she gasped out, anxiety and fear taking a toll on her voice and pressing at her chest. She took in shaky breaths.

In her panic, she felt almost outside of herself. She could hear a pair of maids talking in the far hall, "It must be something serious," said one, "Indeed. I have never seen Miss. Woodhouse distraught" replied the other.

They would be thinking her weak, and for once in her life she truly did not care.

She raised her bleary eyes to Mr. Knightley's own. "He has died," Emma offered barely above a whisper—barely able to choke out the words, the words themselves felt so terrible on her lips.

"Oh, Emma," Mr. Knightley cried out, "I am so sorry," his emotions playing with the pitch and tone of this voice.

She drew breath quickly, "We must go back to Hartfield!" She exclaimed suddenly, as if coming back to her senses with a jolt. "I will have worried the household; I must inform them that I am alright," she told him, drawing together once more, as shock was setting in.

"Oh Emma, don't worry about that. I sent a horse and rider the minute Mrs. Hodges called for me and informed me of your demeanor," he told her. "Here, let's get you warm before we set out anywhere," he recommended, taking a long coat from a cabinet near the doorway.

It was made for him and dwarfed her, but it was warm and smelled like the apple trees of Donwell orchard and a richer mossy scent she couldn't place. She hadn't ever considered that Mr. Knightley had a scent, but it was clear as she pulled the coat tighter that he did; and it was comforting and safe.

He guided her into the parlor and sat next to her on the chaise lounge in front of the fresh fire. It was in a full blaze and the maids must have put an enormity of logs on after seeing her soggy, trembling form. Her father would have admired the prudence and efficiency of a fire such as this one, Emma thought, almost without realizing the reality of the thought. He would have, but he wasn't here and she would never hear his words again.

She broke into sobs once more. Trying to muffle them and attempting to turn away from Mr. Knightley to hide her face. He shifted with her, moving so that she was still tucked against him. She realized Mr. Knightley had not let her go since she had spoken of her father's passing.

His hand rubbed her back gently, "It seems as if the world is crashing in and it is. Much has been lost but you will get through this Emma, we will get through this," he offered, placing his kerchief in her hand.

She nodded, pressing the kerchief he had given her to her nose to stop it from running horribly.

"I have lost both of my parents as well, and I know the immensity of the pain. Try to believe me, when I tell you that it will get easier. But until it does, promise me you won't hide your pain. I can vouch that it does no good to fight it—give yourself the freedom to grieve Emma, the freedom to not have everything in control," he offer softly.

She nodded her agreement.

"Have you sent word to John and Isabella?" He asked softly, not intending to distress her but needing to ask, despite his desire to allow her every comfort.

Emma's heart sank and her eyes grew big, brimming with tears of mortification. In all her panic and terror, she had forgotten completely about sending a messenger for her sister and brother in law—it had probably caused an hour or more delay.

"No—I— I have been so selfish, so foolish, so unfeeling, how could I have forgotten about my sister!" Emma sobbed frantically. She was feeling flushed all over and was attempting to stand. She would need to leave right away to get back to Hartfield.

Mr. Knightley placed a firm hand to her shoulder to prevent her from standing, or worse yet bolting. He may not have understood women fully or how to console them, but Emma he treated as he did a panicking horse, firm and calm. Saying in the mildest of tones, "Do not worry yourself Emma, it is not your fault, you have received the greatest of shocks. I will send word to Brunswick Square directly."

* * *

"Emma?" Isabella called out cautiously upon entering her sister's room. Things had been tense since she had all but forbade Emma from attending the funeral procession, and Emma true to her nature, had head-strongly refused to listen.

"I am exhausted Isabella, please let us not talk about this now," Emma sighed out from the shelter of her covers. She was trying to drown out the events of the week, to forget the sound of crunching gravel as she walked next to the Knightley brothers in the procession, to forget the feeling of heart own heartbeat pounding in her ears as they laid her father to rest. Maybe Isabella had been right, perhaps funeral processions were no place for the feeble and fragile. She wanted to deny her fragility, she was not weak, not really, just terribly sad and feeling horribly empty.

"Dislike it as we might, we need to make arrangements; your things will need to be brought to London, and we must decide on travel dates," Isabella informed her.

"I am not in a mood to visit London at this time Isabella, I need to be here at home," Emma explained, pulling the covers away from her face slightly so that her sister could see her face. See how weak and pale she looked—surly then her sister would recognize that she needed her space to recoup. Then she would know that the busy household at Brunswick Square would not fit the bill for recovering.

"Emma, John and I fully expect that London will be your new home," Isabella told her, with as much good cheer as she could offer.

 **Expect.** Emma was shocked, it sounded as if other options had been entirely ruled out. How dare they!

"Well, then you are mistaken," Emma stated firmly, some of the chill from earlier in day from their fight over attending the funeral was seeping into her words. She continued, "I plan to remain at Hartfield until it belongs to Henry," Emma told her, feeling miserable and betrayed by the fact that her only surviving family was making plans for her behind her back and without the slightest thought of how their plans might affect her. But Emma had been thinking of options as well, and if Isabella had voiced her own idea, it was only right that Emma shared her ideas as well, "I must admit, I have been secretly hoping that your family will all live here at Hartfield," Emma told her.

"That isn't a solution Emma!" Isabella retorted.

"It is one of many options, do not pretend it isn't "

"It isn't, and you would know it if you understood the situation fully!" Isabella defended.

"Do not belittle me Isabella! My father has died too! And I understand perfectly, and I hold that it is one of many options!"

"John is a lawyer Emma, he needs to make an income to pay for our London house and there is nothing for him in Highbury, we could not live at Hartfield without incurring debts,"

"Surly the money from leasing the land and proprieties would help cover—"

"Papa was not a business man Emma, many of his fields were without tenants this season and last, many are fallow, overrun with weeds and it will be tremendous work to restore them to what they once were,"

"Mr. Knightley could help me, Papa may not have been ambitious in business but Mr. Knightley has an excellent mind for—"Emma was cut off harshly by her sister.

"I will not live at Hartfield on the expense of my son's inheritance!" Isabella told with finality, "John made it very clear that a decision to live at Hartfield without alternative income would require land to be entailed over time, depreciating Henry's inheritance before he ever received it. I wouldn't think of it, and neither would you Emma, if you were thinking clearly,"

Emma broke into sobs, how dare Isabella twist things to skew what Emma was saying.

It did not matter and Emma was not given a chance to speak again. Isabella rushed out of the room to seek out John. They would lay it all out for Emma rationally and methodically, as if in a court and then she would be made to understand.

* * *

A.N: For anyone who thinks Isabella is out of character, I say maybe. Granted we don't see much of her in the book and Emma has always outshone her—there could be layers of animosity that have never been aired. Also, at times tragedy will stir up the worst in people. No matter what, eldest sisters always tend to think they know best, and that it is their job to save everyone. In this, her idea of **best** will directly challenge Emma's strong will, and we've got ourselves a powder keg!

Please review! I would love to hear your thoughts! Ask me anything!

PrettyPet


	2. Convince Me

Chapter 2

' **Convince Me'**

" _There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."_

 _Jane Austen – Pulled from Northanger Abbey, because the sentiment was appropriate!_

* * *

Emma had shifted restlessly and her sleep was fragmented from flashbacks for the funeral and with nightmares.

" _It is done," Mr. Knightley had told her, his hand at her back, rubbing comforting circles against her shoulder blades._

 _She nodded in muted agreement, not trusting her voice to speak. Her eyes were pinned looking at the grave, watching as shovelfuls of dirt were scooped onto the lowered coffin._

" _You should have listened!" Isabella's voice cut through interrupting the flashback. Her presence shifted the vision from memory to dream._

 _Mr. Knightley stepped away as Isabella entered, moving outside of her range of vision and Emma felt panic rise._

" _But you never listen," she hissed, glaring sharply at Emma. In that moment Emma would have been willing to concede that her only sister hated her._

" _You can't stay here, I won't let you and you will listen this time. You will have no choice but to listen to us," Isabella continued._

 _Emma shook her head in disagreement, as it seemed her voice was not working in the dream._

" _Fine! Stay here!" Isabella shrieked jolting forward and pushing Emma into the open grave._

Emma jumped awake, feeling in her body as if she had connected with the hard coffin lid, after a short drop. She bit her lip sharply to contain the scream of terror.

It had been a horrible dream and yet it captured her feelings of Isabella's betrayal quite perfectly. She groaned audibly at the theme of the dream, maybe Isabella had been right when she had instructed her not to attend the funeral yesterday. Perhaps her willful choice would haunt for a while, but Emma knew in time she would sleep better knowing that her father rest in peace.

* * *

Isabella paced from the front of the living room and back to the fire where her husband sat, albit unknowingly in her father's chair. She was glad that Emma has sequestered herself in the study; she would have been upset to see someone occupying the space so soon.

Earlier in the morning Isabella had made another attempt at convincing Emma. It had not gone well. Isabella had presented Emma with each reason John had listed supporting the impracticality of her idea. Emma had aired her displeasure in various forms, interrupting, shaking her head and breaking into tears. She knew from her sisters pursed lips as she had left the study that morning that it had not worked. She had not convinced her.

"She must be made to hear reason!" Isabella pleaded with John, as she ended her circular pacing and stood in front of him.

"In principle I agree wholly with you dearest, but I cannot make Emma do what she wills not to do," John replied to his wife, sternly but with sympathy. Everyone had been on edge since the funeral had concluded.

"She must be made to by someone who _can_ convince her then! She would not hear my request for her to refrain from attending the procession yesterday; even after I explained such things are not a place for a lady. She went anyway, in complete disregard of what I said. Such a thing would have been unheard of in London," Isabella continued, pausing to blow her nose loudly, and wipe errant tears away that were streaming down at the mere thought of her dear papa's funeral. "She will be convinced to live with us in London. She must. I have told her two times now and she has only become more adamant to the contrary with each mention,"

"I am not sure I will be any more successful than you dearest,"

"But you are a lawyer John; surely you will be able to say something that will sway her,"

John sighed. Bending Emma's will was a task far beyond him. "You spoke to her of the practical realities, the expenditures, Henry's inheritance, being near to family at this time of sorrow, those were all of my ideas and I am at wits end—"

"We must keep trying. The solution is that Emma will live with us, happily if possible and we must keep trying until she accepts it,"

"I understand dear, I do, but I am saying I do not think I am the person capable of convincing her, regardless of the number of attempts," John admitted.

"Then, you must ask your brother, he holds a tremendous amount of sway with Emma," Isabella told him decidedly.

John frowned. He would do it, but he hated to go to his older brother for help. It made him feel less a man, less capable. Afterall, in the passing of Mr. Woodhouse, his sister-in-law became his concern and he didn't like feeling as if he was unable to handle his own affairs.

His wife had asked it, and he knew no better solution himself, so he asked George to rescue him.

* * *

"Emma?" Mr. Knightley called out her name into the dark room. A dim fire place flickered in the corner, the last embers smoldering and smoking slightly. Mr. Woodhouse's study felt damp, morose and as colder than it ever had.

"They've sent you to do their bidding, have they?" Emma scoffed, darkness cloaking her form at the window sill. She was wrapped in a massive blanket. It was the only time since her youth that Mr. Knightley could recall seeing her with her hair down.

"I'm going to fix the fire and then we will have a proper talk," he told her ignoring her question.

"I will not move to London, it is as I have told them, you will not—no I dare think you could not ask this of me," Emma said breathing heavily, sadness and panic coiling together.

"I hope to offer you wise council Emma, you are very dear to me," he told her, crouching to stoke the fire.

She stood from the window sill then, gathering up her mass of blankets and followed him to where he crouched at the fire. "If that were true, you would be on my side demanding that they allow me to stay," Emma called out, feelings of betrayal etched in her tone.

"Emma, your sister and brother-in-law are seeking the best solution under very unhappy circumstances, do not aim to make this into something it isn't," he offered standing and backing away from the fire.

"It is about money Mr. Knightley," Emma announced.

"It is not and you know it," he said sternly, upon hearing his own tone, he reminded himself of her grief and chided himself for not sounding softer, and promised himself he would be gentle going forward. He would not upset her, she was his dearest friend.

"It is, at least in part. My first suggestion was that we would all live at Hartfield. Isabella said that country lawyers are not in demand and they would not be able to subsist on a meager income and as a result they are not able to live anywhere but London. I said I assumed the income from Father's properties would recoup much of the difference. Yet, Isabella said that Papa has properties without tenants because he had let contracts lapse, and that at present, the upkeep and expenditures of living at Hartfield would be disservice to Henry's inheritance when he comes of age." Emma felt sick as the words left her mouth; she never imagined her sister would stoop so low as the mention money or use her precious nephew against her.

"It would be expensive." He agreed.

"I offered that I might live here alone, it would allow them to remain in London and for John to keep his job, and this also was rejected. They believe it would be too much for me and the expenses were mentioned again,"

"Emma, while I have every confidence that you can run a house such as Hartfield with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back, it is more house than one person could ever use, and in that way it could be said to be uneconomical—"

Finally feeling overwhelmed Emma shrieked out, "And could the same not be said about Donwell?" in her own defense.

Mr. Knightley chuckled despite himself, "Yes, it could," he agreed. "but I have tenants enough that it turns a profit, which also requires that I run my estate, which encourages that I live on my estate,"

"Yes, you are a prudent business man Mr. Knightley. My father dealt with business in his own passive sort of way, and it has allowed land to go without tenants. But you are not a passive landlord, which is exactly why I told Isabella that you would help me secure tenants to help offset Hartfield's expenditures. She told me that it should be our expressed purpose to lease Hartfield and have tenants on our land and place the surplus income aside to add to the inheritance so that the children are well set up," Emma explained.

"Emma, these are all valid reasons," he told her.

"I have lost everything Mr. Knightley!" Emma confided. "My father left a portion on money in my own trust," she told him. It was implied to be a dowry but there were no real stipulations—simply maximum withdrawals per annum. She had not mentioned this plan to John and Isabella. "I am thinking that if I am not permitted to stay at Hartfield, I will look for something more economical in Highbury," she told him.

"Emma, it is not a good plan," he told her outright.

"I will not move to London. Isabella may think she knows what is best for me but she is mistaken. I will not be torn from my childhood home, ripped away from the only friends in the world and transplanted in London mere days after the death of my father, while everyone else agrees on how good it will be for me!" Emma refused with passionate indignation.

"Emma that money has been set aside for you from the time you were born, over the years your father added to it. It is a generous sum and he meant it to provide you with security, a safety net should you need it. He did not intend for it to be squander—" Emma cut him off quickly.

"Mr. Knightley, I will not be squandering it, I will be doing just what my father intended—" she began to protest.

"It is intended as a dowry and you know it," Mr. Knightley reprimanded. Again, giving himself a caution after the words left his mouth to be softer with her.

"If he intended it to only serve as a dowry, then he would have added stipulations, of which there aren't any aside from maximum withdrawals. As long as I live modestly, it will last me for a good many years,"

"What life would you have? To be like Miss. Bates?" Mr. Knightley asked sharply, losing his internal battle to be gentle with her. He could not deny the pain he felt when he envisioned such a future for her, and it made him want to save her from it, even if it meant hurting her feelings slightly in the interim.

"There is nothing wrong with that! They have community, friends, the comforts of Highbury, it is a better situation than what is plotted out for me in London," she pressed back with a glare.

"I told you once that each day they become reduced in their circumstance, which is true but even Miss. Bates has something you do not," Mr. Knightley announced.

"And what might that be?" She asked almost sounding angry with him.

"Mrs. Bates, which means companionship and social acceptability, our society does not look pleasantly on those who deign to live alone Emma,"

Emma was shocked.

She gasped out, half a forced laugh and half scathing, "You of all people are speaking to me about that? Mr. Knightley, you live alone!"

"It isn't the same thing and you know it,"

"Because I am a woman," she concluded aloud.

He nodded.

"And a single man may live at his leisure but a woman may not as it would be untoward," she added, shaking her head. It was ridiculous.

"But the rules of society aren't what really matter. Emma, you would be lonely if you lived alone. You know you would,"

"I would not be lonely," she countered firmly. She sighed conceding, "I might be lonely at times but I would have friends; I would have you. Do you think I would not be lonely in London? Think again! I will be so lonely. No matter what happens in Highbury, I could never be as lonely as I would be in London where I will have nothing. Isabella and I are not close, we have always been very different personalities and I did not foresee a life where I would be minding her little ones or living as a guest in someone else's home. Are you saying I would not be lonely there? You imagine I would be happy there, surrounded by others at all times, not a moment or quiet space enough for my thoughts? I would not have you to speak with or tease or laugh with," tears started to flow freely, she would truly lose everything, "And you would be satisfied that I would only see you annually? Christmas and maybe my birthday, if I could convince you to travel the distance for an old friend that you hardly see?"

"If you lived alone Emma, I wouldn't be permitted to visit you as often as I do now, as often as I have all your life, it would be talked of badly,"

"You think that people in Highbury would gossip about us?" She asked.

"They do, they have since you became of age! Your father's constant presence was always there to prevented true ridicule or substantiated claims. But if this, our friendship, were to continue in the way it has always been, you would be—we would be exposed to gossip and your reputation would be negatively affected," Mr. Knightley predicted.

She was blindsided by his statement. As if she cared one whit about her reputation.

"I will not lose my dearest friend in a daft effort to maintain my reputation," Emma tossed back sharply.

"I came to give you sound advice; I think you should join your sister in London," He told her quietly, not taking the bait to raise his voice as she had and giving her silly statement no credence.

"I am in the greatest pain I have ever experienced in my entire life and you are asking that I leave everything I have ever known; everything that might bring me comfort or happiness again?" Her words were pinched with anger and with sadness, her voice cracking intermittently. "I will not."

"Emma, I recognize that you are in pain right now, I understand keenly the emotions that you are facing—I lost my father and mother too, but to stay, there is nothing here for you now Emma. What remains? You cannot entertain that you could stay here," he told her gently, trying to lessen the pain he knew his words would cause.

She responded with a tearful reply, her shaky voice held in check by her indomitable will, "Mr. Knightley, I have no choice. This is all I know. Highbury is everything to me. If I could stay at Hartfield it would be my greatest joy but if that isn't to be, then the nearest thing would be to remain within the community that I have loved and grown up in," she told him. "You are my greatest friend, I thought you would understand. How could I part from Highbury? How could I part from you?" She posited, staring directly into his eyes with glassy, tear stained bright blue eyes.

He had no immediate answer and so she continued, "to lose my father and then to lose everything, how can people ask this of me? Isabella does not understand; she has John and the children; her community is already in London. But for me London is a foreign place, everything is wrapped up in where I am now. The only shred of normalcy I have left is here. How can I be asked to leave?" she pleaded, knowing he was affected by her speech, simply by the look on his face. At a glance, she knew he would take every one of her pains upon himself, if only it were possible.

"Emma, you may be of age but you are young yet. Who would look after you? Who would be your guardian?" Mr. Knightley pressed at the practicalities of the matter, his own emotions may have been taking up Emma's plight but his own brother needed him for is pragmatic mind. "And before you protest, I know you can handle a household, I know you can handle any task put to you that you put your mind to but socially, even in good company who would go with you? Who would stand beside you? What is left here for a single woman, though of good means? Because as I have already mentioned, even Miss. Bates has a mother"

"Mr. Knightley, whatever you may say, I know that I have friends here who would not turn their backs on me in my time of need. You have all but said our friendship would be impossible, but I don't believe you would abandon me in my grief. You forget that I know you Mr. Knightley, you who knew my father so well, you who came almost every evening to eat and talk with my father, as demanding and particular as he could be. It is you that we are speaking of, you who has known me all my life and has cared so well for me. And because I know you, I know that abandoning me isn't within your character. It isn't who I know you to be; it would not matter how much slander it would bring your own name, you would not desert me" Emma told him with confidence, choosing to respond to his counter with gentle appreciation for the friend she trusted, rather than to retaliate bitterly against his counter argument.

"You are right to say I would not desert you, but you are mistaken if you think I would undertake any action that would prove harmful to your reputation. Emma, amongst all the other things we are to one another, I am a bachelor and you are a single woman, it would not be proper. And while I would bend or break almost any rule to help you, I would never conduct myself in any way that might be a source of condemnation for you. You are young, despite the pain you feel right now, you will have a life beyond this and I will not jeopardize your future,"

Emma started sobbing, choking back heavy tears.

"Emma, I do not aim to offend you. I am not looking to cause you more pain. I am merely stating facts, and it would not be proper. Society would not view it kindly. My desire is for what is prudent, what is right, what is best, for you, for your reputation, for your well-being, for everything! Emma, I do not know what it would be like for you to live alone, I know that I am alone and I have made it suit me, but a gentleman is more fortunate—and being a bachelor is not seen in the same light as a single woman—," he felt she was wanting to cut in, and made the point he knew she intended to make for her, "and fair or not, that is the current situation, and I apologize that that is the case but it would be seen as untoward by most society if you were to decide to live alone. To entertain company, especially gentleman would be cause for gossip and scandal,"

"Mr. Knightley, I will not be leaving Highbury, I will not, I cannot. And if it is me being a single lady that brings offense to people, then I do not have in and of myself a solution for that. But I will not leave Highbury, even if it means I may not go to parties or make social calls. Even if it meant I could never see you, because it wouldn't matter, I would not see you in London either. I would rather be alone in Highbury in the surroundings of my youth, the comfort of town and the relief of knowing all the names of the people near, living in my own space, than to be in London in a house full of people, attending every party with a full social calendar, surrounded by strangers. Don't you see? To go live with John and Isabella and their kids would be the end of me! I don't –I don't think I could handle that. And you claim to worry about my well-being and my mental and emotional state, but I don't know what could be more grievous, in my time of heartache and need, as to be surrounded constantly by people. The house at Brunswick Square is not large, it is not a grand house and while I am not so accustom to luxury that I need the biggest of houses, I do need space of my own. A quiet place to think and relax, that is not a possibility there and it never will be. I do not need the high things in life but I do need and appreciate my own space, I need room to breathe and stretch my arms, walk through the countryside, lay back against the grass in the apple orchard and watch the clouds. These are all very precious to me and I will not have them taken from me for the sake of propriety,"

"Emma, I will counsel you otherwise, I am your friend and I wish you well and I want the best for you—" Mr. Knightley started, Emma cut him off.

"Then find me a solution Mr. Knightley. Find me a solution that will allow me to stay, to stay and to be permitted to see you," she replied earnestly. "I should be happy just to be near to all my friends," Emma added with a yawn, she hadn't the energy for all of this but she hadn't a choice but to debate and converse.

"Emma—" Mr. Knightley started to speak, from his tone she knew he was protesting.

"You are breaking my heart," she told him flatly. Every rebuttal he offered felt as she imagined a knife wound would.

Silence stretched. For a while all she could hear was the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing. They both had had so much to say.

One thought remained with Emma that she had not offered up. It seemed strange to hold anything back at this juncture. What would be the point? As things stood, he would be lost to her anyways.

"It is a problem that I am unmarried," Emma stated.

"Of course it is a problem, had you a husband, none of this would be an issue," he replied automatically, hardly giving thought to the statement.

"Then Mr. Knightley, might you marry me?" She asked.

His shock was apparent in the stammering and stuttering that followed, "Emma—I—what are you doing Emma?"

"Mr. Knightley, I ask you in all seriousness. One thing I am certain of is that I never want to lose you, your friendship, your company, I cherish it more than any other worldly thing. If it is a matter of my not being married, and if it is a matter of people talking, then surly I could marry you and solve for everything at once."

"Emma, you don't know what you are speaking of," Mr. Knightley challenged.

"Mr. Knightley, I know that we are the best of friends. I know that it would break my heart never to see you. And if I could have you in my life permanently, while it would fix many things and I know I would not trade it for anything in the world. I know that I am grieving and I know that you must be thinking this is all because I am upset, but I am asking, in earnest, if you will marry me."

"Emma, you do not comprehend the gravity of what you are asking of me," Mr. Knightley reply.

"But you are a bachelor Mr. Knightley, you have always been a bachelor and you have made no pretenses about wanting to change that. I have never intended that you or I would marry anyone. We would always be friends, remember? That was our goal," Emma rattled out. "And I—there is no one that I care for so well as you, should it be so wrong to marry me? Would it be terrible to see me every day? I know I should not find it hard to see you, as I enjoy your company better than any other. I should relish in it, to see you every day would be a blessing! I promise I would seek to be the greatest lady that Donwell has ever known,"

"Barring my mother," Mr. Knightley offered.

"Of course," Emma retracted, with a sheepish grin; if he was sharing humor did it mean he would accept her offer? Her heart swelled at the idea of easy companionship and security she would have at his side. She had been unable to do anything but worry from the moment her father had died, and if he accepted her, she wouldn't have to worry about anything as long as she lived. And at the thought that she would secure herself in his life—so that she could never lose him, never be parted from him, she smiled for the first time since her father had passed.

"I will need some time to consider your proposal," Mr. Knightley informed her, sounding every bit the prudent business man. She did not want him to vote with his mind, that would more than likely raise a host of glaring issues; she was so young, barely twenty and she was reeling in the turmoil surrounding the loss of her father and the threat that everything in her life was about to change.

"If you are unsure, I do not want you to act out of obligation. In the situation I find myself in it has become clear that I ought to marry, but it does not need to be you, if it would be troubling in any way," Emma insisted, hoping that positing a challenge would capture a quick decision.

"Who else is there?" Mr. Knightley observed judiciously. There wasn't a soul in Highbury that would be a smart match for Emma, it was perfectly clear.

"My former governess has a son, rather a step-son, but he is said to be very dashing, I have thought more than once that it would be nice to meet him. It strikes me now, that perhaps with some suggestion from his father he could be encouraged to—"Emma was cut off by Mr. Knightley.

"Emma, I will accept your offer," Mr. Knightley told her, sounding slightly cross with her.

"Only if you are sure—" Emma started, once again being cut off.

"I am a man of my word Emma; I will have John draw up all necessary documentation. The announcement will be made in church and it will be understood by society that this is a unique situation, and as such you will not be held to the traditional grieving period. And our wedding date will be arranged so that you have your wish, and are not required to leave Highbury for a single moment,"

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley," she beamed at him, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. "I am eternally grateful and I will strive to be the best wife, I swear it,"

"Having made this decision, I am obligated to speak to John right away," Mr. Knightley told her, standing and exiting the room in a state that Emma could only describe as shock.

* * *

A/N: Happy Saturday! Here is the other half! This and the first chapter had been one massive chapter. I didn't want to overwhelm! Are the transitions awkward?

I would love ideas, suggestion and feedback.

Are you enjoying this so far? Are the interactions at all believable? Feel free to included any typos or the like, I'm open to all constructive critique!

Thanks,

PrettyPet


	3. Intent

Chapter 3

Intent

"There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me." - From Pride & Prejudice because it just feels right!

* * *

As anyone might have guessed, Emma sought the interaction out. One, if they did not understand her keenly, might go so far as to say she sought the confrontation out, but Emma did not imagine this conversation would bring a fight.

In her mind it was the blessed solution—found with some difficultly, after days of turmoil and uncertainty. Emma felt it was to be celebrated; songs should have been sung if the circumstances had not been as they were. Even though she had her clever solution and did not face immediate further trials, her dear Papa was still gone and her heart was still pressed with anguish.

As far as Emma was concerned, Isabella would get what she wanted; a full inheritance for her children and a solution to the problem at hand: what to do with an unmarried younger sister forced upon ones care. Especially when said sister had no obvious marital prospects and had not taken kindly to the idea of moving.

Emma thought to herself, she would have fought tooth and nail to stay in Highbury. She almost chuckled when the memory of the wild boar they'd once seen caught in the brambles between Highbury and Randalls came to mind. It was frothing with anger and not a soul could get near it for fear and their own safety. It perhaps was an unflattering comparison but it well reflected her own sentiment; she would not be made to do what she did not want, regardless of what others believed was in her best interest.

"I have the solution to everything," Emma smiled fully entering into the living room where Isabella had been spending most of her days, a blazing fire and always ready tea kettle.

"What is your new solution?" Isabella asked, she sounded bored, but Emma saw exhaustion behind her eyes.

"I will live at Donwell Abbey," Emma told her, suddenly feeling shy and stopping short of announcing her engagement.

"That isn't a solution Emma, and you know why as well as I do," Isabella told her outright, moving her fingers to press at her temples, as if she was fatigued by a sudden headache. "I know he is your friend but it would not be proper—"

"What I should have said is that Mr. Knightley intends to marry me," Emma revised.

Isabella's hands fell away from their place at her temples and her mouth fell open in shock.

"I know by your face you are looking for words that will denounce this as a good solution, but I have thought it out and I am determined that it is the best offer possible, given my circumstances," Emma told her preemptively.

"Given your circumstances! What are you talking about? John and I have offered you a home, Emma! We have invited you to live with us in London! Our every intention was to prevent you from needing to undertake rash actions or ill thought out solutions! What possible reason could necessitate a convenient marriage?"

"George Knightley is my best friend and he has agreed. In doing so, he has offered me every form of security and has allowed for my every wish to be possible." Emma told her, using his Christian name in front of another person for the first time. It felt strange; she caught her own cheeks flaring with heat and knew that she was blushing.

"This is madness Emma, what were you thinking?"

"It isn't madness! Mr. Knightley is a wise man and has never been prone to recklessness. If he is willing, then how can you call my actions reckless?"

"You know as well as I, that you have had Mr. Knightley wrapped around your finger since you were a toddler! Do not pretend that he has any more chance at telling you no than the rest of us! You are impossible!"

"Oh, you would say that, I'm only _impossible_ because I wouldn't bow to your supreme understanding of what is _best_ for me and you aren't used to not getting your way! Instead, I am thinking that—"Emma tried to list the reasons and give explanation, but her sister would not hear of it.

"You are not yourself, Emma!"

"I am as much myself as I ever will be and Mr. Knightley's agreement to marry me will allow me to remain myself for as long as I live!" Emma retaliated, her tone clipped and cheeks flushed.

"Emma, you are out of your depth. I know that you are grieving, that the worst of sorrows has befallen you. Though I have also lost my dear Papa, I do not pretend to suffer to the extent that you are. I have not lived at home for many years and though I will miss Papa greatly, he was not always around me as he was for you. I know that you are in great pain and that the emotions are overwhelming but I am asking that you do not jeopardize your future because of the pain you feel now, "

"I appreciate what you are saying Isabella, but I have made my choice. I intend to marry Mr. Knightley."

"John and I have made every effort to help you and in turn Emma, you are acting as a petulant child! Spinning out of control in any way you can, simply to get your way! Can you not see it will end badly?" Isabella asked, her eyes watering.

"I am venturing into a future that I have chosen Isabella; it is an immense relief that I am not being forced into a life that I do not want. I cannot pretend I know how it will turn out, but I am at peace with the decision I have made."

"What did you say to Mr. Knightley?" Isabella demanded with a rapid change in topic, looking angry and stricken with anxiety all at once.

Emma felt perhaps she had injured Isabella's pride when she had described the life Isabella had plotted for her in such dismal terms.

"I laid out all the solutions, as I did for you and he met each of them with various critique, as he always has. And then it was clear that the main problem with the best of my plans was that I was unmarried and it was hindering my desire to remain in Highbury. It was then decided that Mr. Knightley and I would marry,"

"It was decided? At whose suggestion?"

"Does it matter?" Emma countered sharply, knowing deep down that it would have been horribly improper to have asked anyone who was not her dearest friend the same question she had asked Mr. Knightley. Yet, clearly it had not offended Mr. Knightley too badly, as he had agreed to it afterall.

"Your actions have been deplorable!" Isabella scolded, looking at her with harsh eyes, "I cannot imagine what you said to poor Mr. Knightley but if I hear of the slightest hint of manipulation, I – I will be sure that—"

"You will what?" Emma requested, "You will prevent it? You have no grounds!"

"Emma, John is a lawyer, he will—"

Emma laughed scornfully, "At the moment he will be collecting all the necessary documentation to see me married! Because, as much as you will hate to say it, I am a burden that was cast on your poor husband the minute Papa died! And as luck might have it, his own brother, Mr. Knightley will, always and forever, be the only man capable of handling me. You both knew it to be true, or you would not have requested he speak with me in the first place. Now, consider the sense of relief your dear husband will feel when he is told that the Miss. Emma Woodhouse entrusted to his care, shall no longer be a burden for him to bare. And better still, she is to be taken off his hands by a good man, his own brother, who will be capable of managing his sister-in-law in ways he never could be! But the greatest news of all is that by some miracle, it will not reflect poorly on his ability to manage his affairs. Knowing all this, do you think he will say no?"

Isabella could only stare at Emma, her eyes wide with shock; she made no attempts to deny it. John was not a strong man; he would not have stood a chance when set up against Emma's strong will.

"You are making a mistake!" Isabella urged after long moments of piercing silence. "You will come to regret this and when you do and you come to me begging for help— never forget this moment Emma, because I won't have the heart to remind you of your words then,"

"You are being cruel! Do not think I cannot see why! Your plans for Mr. Knightley have always relied on him remaining a bachelor. Perhaps you are spiteful because you are worried that you have miscalculated. Perhaps it has dawned on you that in exchange for retaining every farthing garnered by Hartfield towards a greater inheritance, you may have just lost the entirety of Donwell Abbey," Emma hissed, feeling nothing like herself and hating the hot tears that streamed now following her words. She had just twisted what Mr. Knightley had granted her in his generosity into a mean threat, simply to retaliate against her sister with the sole purpose of being hurtful.

Isabella looked bewildered. As if the thought of a Knightley heir had not even crossed her mind. Mortified by Emma's words, Isabella shook her head in disapproval and left the room.

* * *

George Knightley hadn't been the type to delay the inevitable. Upon leaving Mr. Woodhouse's study, he sought out his brother and pulled him aside. There was a small room attached to the breakfast room that would serve the purpose. It was well lit and quiet, at one time used as a sewing room; it was now rarely used since Emma had grown bored of playing dolls beneath the table and chairs.

He couldn't help but feel that had he been in his own domain when announcing the news he would have had the glass of single malt he currently itched for. He didn't suspect Mr. Woodhouse had a decanter around, and he wasn't sure if his desire for a drink was for relief or in celebration. He was happy that he wouldn't lose his closest friend, but all too conscious that everything was about to change.

"I am going to marry her, John," He told his brother, almost immediately after he had shut the door behind himself, his attention turning from alcohol to the task at hand.

"Marry Emma?"

"Yes, who else?"

"For what reason? Don't let your gut feeling rule you George. She will be fine in London; I am certain she will grow to like it there in time," John told him.

"The reason is I intend to make her happy. She has lost everything and if I have it within my power to give her back something of value and comfort, then I mean to do it," he replied evenly.

"But George, surely this is a hasty decision. Do not forget, both of you are grieving. Clearly the final decision could be postponed if only to be certain you aren't making a choice in the moment that you might later regret," John recommended.

"I all but promised her she would not have to leave Highbury; this isn't possible if the marriage is delayed," Mr. Knightley explained, "We are best of friends, I have always enjoyed her company and I am not concerned with regretting the choice later,"

"But George, it would be different and you know it would; to have her in your house at all times? She is very young yet and what if you desire more than she is able to give?"

"John, I will be more than contented with conversation and lively companionship; we are the best of friends, I have enjoyed my life fully as a bachelor, I have no reason to think I should require more than I have at present to feel complete,"

"But it will be a source of talk and speculation, for it is one thing for a convenient marriage but all expect it to be lived out in the full dimension,"

"It will not be a source of talk," George countered.

"It is not seen a proper for a young married women to bare no children; it will be talked of in time and people will being to recommend remedies as best and speculate the truth at worst; that you are not one before God,"

"I do not see it fit to worry about that now; had I not extended the idea of matrimony as a solution, Emma's planned to live alone, with the hope of still seeing me, and that degree of scandal would be immediate and far worse than the slow speculation that might build with time,"

"As if you would have risked that," John scoffed.

"I told her I would not have, but I know it would have taken everything within me to avoid her. I did not want to really contemplate what if would feel like to never or rarely see my dear friend," George admitted.

"Then you must love her, I know you feel it or you would never have agreed to her foolhardy plan!" John told.

"I do love her, as a man loves his dearest friend," George replied not budging on the subject.

"Ah, and when that friendship grows, when affection stretches beyond the common bonds of friendship what then?" John asked.

"You don't know that that would be the case,"

"She is beautiful, charming and the very picture of flawlessness, madding stubbornness aside, which is likely of being her only fault! You are lying to yourself if you say you will not grow to love her better than you do now," John told him sternly.

"And if I did? What then? What of it? Where is the harm in that?" George digressed. Would it be so wrong for a man to love his wife? Who could fault him for loving Emma?

"You'll have no guarantee that she would ever return the love, and have you ever considered what happens when friendship is asked to stretch but cannot?" John asked with a delayed paused for emphasis. "It breaks George, often irreparably," he stated, answering his own question with a certain and even tone.

"I've given her my word," George told him flatly, giving no credence to the question his brother advanced.

"Things are not the same as they were in the past George! There is latitude in that nothing has been announced publicly; until the bans are read, you need not consider the decision final,"

"I know the law John; but my word isn't something I take lightly, I will stand by my agreement—for better or for worse,"

"I won't try to prevent your actions, George. I am your inferior in birth, title, rank and I have always assumed wisdom as well. I have looked to you for advice many times in my own life. All I ask that you consider with wisdom what you have agreed to in haste,"

"It is final John, I trust you will obey my wishes and make sure the proper paperwork is in order," George told him with a tone of finality.

"I will do as you ask," John agreed.

George Knightley watched as his brother left the room, making a bowing gesture of subservience before leaving, His jaw clenched with the tension he refused to let his younger brother see. His brother had pointed out every area of problem and added to the list by highlighting potential problems he had never even considered. But he was determined; he and Emma would be life companions, that was the most he could ever hope for and he was not lying when he told John that it would be enough for him. It would have to be.

* * *

Hi All,

Thank you for the follows and adding this story to the favourites list! I can say enough about how reviews help the writing process. I so appreciate the support and encouragement and I would love to hear reviews everyone that reads (I know that isn't realistic) but leave a review, even if it is just a thanks!

Till next time!

PrettyPet

Question- How are you feeling about Emma's behaviour this chapter? Realistic? Too Mean? Over the top? I'm super curious, please comment in the review!


	4. The Wedding

**Chapter 4**

 **The Wedding**

Quick note: I am taking liberties with the seasonal timeline in this story. I've written it with the ideas that Mr. Woodhouse dies in Late January or Early February; making the earliest wedding date (bans being read on three consecutive Sunday's) Late February to Early March. The problem is Mr. Elton is married by Mid-March and this will cause issues with the plot.

I've decided I won't be a stickler for the tiny details! I will build it out from here and let it ride! If you are wondering why dates don't line up that is why. This is what I get for wanting poetic winter weather to reflect the sad mood in the first chapter. Oh well, it puts the timeline off but I think it is worth it!

* * *

Since the time when Miss. Taylor left Hartfield to become the amiable wife of Mr. Weston, Emma had become friends with Miss. Harriet Smith. Although they were not the sort of friends that did all things together, Emma had felt that in recent months they had grown closer and Emma had even welcomed Harriet into her confidence.

While Emma had not thought it prudent in the past weeks to burden Harriet with her pain or with the grieving process that followed the death of her dear Papa, she did feel it was the right thing to let Harriet know of her engagement to Mr. Knightley before it was announced in church.

She was Emma's friend and it stood to reason that as such, she deserved to know before a common stranger. Despite that being felt, Emma was struggling with how to broach the topic.

Having consumed the tea and pastries, and chatted idly, Emma felt a renewed sense of urgency—every time Harriet stirred she felt certain it was to bid her farewell.

"Harriet, there is something I must tell you," Emma began, biting her cheek in regret of pausing.

"Oh? What is it?" her friend asked her bright eyes wide with interest and looking up at her with full attention.

"It will be announced in a few days but I felt it was best for you to hear it from me directly. Mr. Knightley and I are engaged and will be married next month," Emma told her, hoping she did not sound as flat to another person as she did to her own ears.

"Really! Well, that is wonderful," Harriet beamed looking fully delighted, "I have always thought Mr. Knightley to be such a gentleman and the best sort of gentleman really—I think possibly the best gentleman in all of Highbury," Harriet reflected.

"Why yes, yes he is," Emma chuckled. It was in her mind was a vast understatement; as far as she knew, from other people, for she had not traveled widely, Mr. Knightley was the best sort of gentleman there was, period.

"You will be so happy," Harriet told her.

Emma's heart thudded painfully in response. She hoped she would feel happy again someday and she would not be selective over the reasoning; anything to dull the ache beneath her breastbone.

"I shall be happier with him than I could be with any other," Emma agreed to try to keep up a happy spirit. It was true. There was no one she enjoyed so well as Mr. Knightley and he was helping her tremendously.

"It is a dream Emma to be married! I am so thrilled for you, I feel such elation and excitement I can hardly contain it. Dear friend, I am so happy for you! I feel almost as if it were I that were to be married," Harriet laughed at herself then.

"Well, don't lose heart on your own account, Harriet. I know I have been otherwise occupied recently, but have the full desire of moving forward in my plans from the fall. I have every intention of seeing you happily settled with a wonderful gentleman of your own," Emma told her forcing a smile. She knew that any task would do her mind good and if matchmaking would not take her mind off of the sorrow, then nothing would. "I have in mind some good opportunities, and I absolutely intend to pick up where I have left off once I am settled at Donwell," she promised.

Harriet nodded agreeably and they continued to chat about the future and their idealized plans for it until it was time for Harriet to return to Miss. Goddard's school.

* * *

In her young life, Emma had imagined one thing more than any other thing; weddings. As a young girl, she was fascinated by them, by the very idea of a wedding. Her dolls played parts, the people involved, the appearance and festivity of it—they all wore many faces. These ceremonies were reenacted under almost every table in Hartfield, the only requirement seeming to be a tablecloth overhang, to act as garland.

In the entirety of that time, Emma had never envisioned her own wedding. She had grown up in a life of privilege. Her early life was the embodiment of perfect peace and comfort, without a single concern; it had never crossed her mind that marriage would ever be for her; she was Emma Woodhouse and she would never have the need of it.

Yet, in all the weddings she had imagined as a child, each of them had the consistency one thing: garland, or at very least the imagination that there was a garland. The tablecloth, daisy chains when in season or sometimes ribbons stood in for the famed role of the flower garland in her dramatic imaginings.

For this reason, Emma could say that her wedding was not as any she had ever imagined; it wasn't like any wedding she had ever conceived. For while there were flowers present, there wasn't a single strand of garland anywhere to be seen. How could any wedding really be called a wedding without flower garland?

She did not voice her concerns; after all her dearest friend was doing her a considerable favour. She didn't need her wedding for its charm and beauty, but for the perfunctory requirement of it; a wedding was needed to solve a problem and her wedding solved the problem regardless of the decorum. She would be free of Isabella's interference and demands; she would never have to leave Highbury. Garland or not.

The air was crisp and the sky was clear, and she was very pleased that it was decently warm for March. She had felt like the shroud she had been living under these past weeks was lifting slightly under the bright sunshine. Emma was told that she was born to be in the sun; that as a toddler nothing had made her more pleased than to be in the sun's rays as they shone through the wrought iron window panes and cast bright shapes and patterns on her face. And with the bloom of a few spring flowers, crocuses, aubrietia and even the wild primroses it seemed as if life was returning to the country landscape.

The wedding followed the usual pattern. Mr. Elton, though he had looked at her harshly as he read the bans that first Sunday, had been throughout and dignified in conducting the ceremony. Emma had wondered if at the first reading he was judging her for marrying so soon after her father's death. It seemed whatever his complaint had been, it had not hindered him in carrying out the ceremony successfully, and that was all she cared about; his judgement of her was not her concern.

The wedding breakfast was full of rich foods and excited well wishes. And yet Emma felt less attentive than she expected to be. She felt almost lost in thought and it wasn't for the reasons that were typical of late.

She was thinking about the ceremony.

Mr. Knightley, for she wasn't sure she could ever grow used to calling him George, had kissed her. She had never been kissed before, it was soft and warm and quite pleasant, but it was over before she could really process everything or decide how she ought to conduct herself.

Upon considering it, she should not have been as surprised by it as she was; for some reason, she had assumed that he would not kiss her, as it was not truly required of him.

It reminded Emma of something Mrs. Weston had told her a few days prior, something to the effect of "Husbands want affection from their wives, they like to feel needed and worthy of their wives. As his wife Emma, it is your job to support him and love him,"

Her friend and former governess had told her so much on the subject of men and marriage and affection, Emma wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

Even when she had been her governess, she had always been protective and kind to her—constantly seeking Emma's best interest. On one hand, she believed Mrs. Weston to be very wise and thoughtful to share with her. Emma had heard of women vastly unprepared for their wedding nights, as they understood nothing of what was required.

Emma was grateful to Mrs. Weston; though she was not her mother, she cared for her as any good mother would—even when her role had changed and she was no longer employed to provide this care and nurturing.

Yet, Mrs. Weston could not understand the circumstances of her marriage. It wouldn't cross Mrs. Weston's mind that what she was telling Emma in good conscience might never come to pass.

Would Mr. Knightley seek the affections that Mrs. Weston mentioned in vague detail?

Mr. Knightley had kissed her. It was not a requirement that he do so, and yet he chose to. It was more than likely out of a desire to draw the appearance of authenticity.

Would he join her in her room this evening?

She was not sure.

The light pressure on her arm as she passed through the crowd of well-wishers brought her attention back to the present.

She was surprised to see a sharply designed phaeton carriage.

He gave her a hand up; she sat primly against the brightly coloured velvet cushions. Mr. Knightley took up the reins.

"I can't believe you purchase a phaeton for the occasion! It's lovely," Emma told him, continuing to survey the pretty carriage. "If I knew that marriage would be all it took to prevent you from riding everywhere on horseback and transition to riding in a stylish carriage like a true gentleman, I would have offered to marry you years ago," Emma teased.

"Dearest Emma, I am afraid I will be causing you disappointment, but I have not purchased this carriage—it is frivolous and overstated, and I am grateful to be borrowing it from a friend and not adding it to my list of possessions. I don't have the conscience to spend good money on something that I would only use once." He retorted slowly.

"Only use once? This carriage is gorgeous, I would drive it every day!" Emma challenged.

"And yes Emma, but now you have a husband, who wouldn't wish to drive it every day. And therefore between the two of us, we must come up with a form of transportation that is pleasing to both—"

"I know of ladies who have been given, as part of their wedding trousseau, a brand new carriage with decadent upholstery and a stunning team of horses," Emma commented dryly, "but I suppose their husbands must not have minded shiny things and drawing notice or riding next to them in a fancy carriage on the way to parties. And we will go to parties and you would be terribly misguided if you are imagining me riding alongside you on horseback!"

"I won't ask you to ride on horseback to parties; well maybe only the summer ones, or when the weather is sure to remain nice" he teased back. "but those ladies you speak of, I imagine they were married on not quite so short of notice? If it makes you feel better darling Emma, I did inquire about a new carriage like this one. There is three months duration between placing the order and the assembly; I rationalized that you might prefer to remain in Highbury and marry sooner by foregoing the new carriage. "

"Ah well, yes I suppose you are right. But it is a beautiful thing to behold; perhaps you may borrow it again some time?"Emma smiled.

"Anything to make you happy,"

"I think you must be right again. I have heard it said men are happy when their wives are happy, this adage may be worth adhering for the entirety of our marriage," Emma smiled.

"You look lovely, Emma," He told her, the sun was on her face and the wind was blowing pieces of her ringlet hair across her face.

She beamed at him, her eyes dancing, almost asking if he were serious.

"The dress you chose, it is my favorite of all your dresses, I am glad you chose that one for our wedding," he explained,

"I am sure I have told you before that this dress is my favourite, I think that must be why you like it so well." She smiled.

"It may be one of many reasons, but I should say I like it best because it makes your eyes shine and skin rich and vibrant, you look very pretty in peach tones,"

It seemed before any time at all had passed that Mr. Knightley guided the carriage through the gates of Donwell and up to the front entrance.

"The staff will be lined up to greet you. It is a formality. You will not need to worry about running the household just yet Emma, Mrs. Hodges will be able to ease your transition by handing things over gradually, if and when you feel inclined to take it on," he told her. "You are free to take up as much or as little of her purview as you would like,"

She nodded mutely, feeling unsure and less comfortable that she had in a long time. For the first time, she realized she was not fully sure of her role or of what he wished her role to be. Did he want her to take on all of Mrs. Hodges tasks with as much efficiency as she normally would have? Or was his inviting her to a slow transition an invitation to forgo the tasks that would normally fall to the lady of the house? Donwell dwarfed Hartfield. Did he not think her capable, or was he worried about how she was coping with the loss of her father?

The carriage stopped and Mr. Knightley stepped out of the tall carriage and offer his hand again as she dismounted to greet the staff. Each of them greeted Emma happily and echoed their good wishes on her marriage.

They slowly disbanded after each had been introduced. Emma hadn't the wherewithal to remember all their names.

"Would you like to see Donwell?" Mr. Knightley asked her.

"Mr. Knightley, I have been to Donwell before," she assured him.

"I know that you have, I was thinking you may finally deserve the grand tour. If I am honest, I hadn't fully trusted you near the finer things before," he told her.

She gave him a sharp look.

"What? Don't look so surprised. The last time you were here I think it was Christmas shortly after Isabella was married. I think you were still ducking under tables and liable to break something,"

"If you say so Mr. Knightley," she laughed, she honestly couldn't remember the last time she had been anywhere but his front parlor—he was probably right as it felt like a lifetime ago. The recent memory of the blazing fire that welcomed her in the face of the tragedy of losing her dear papa was the only memory she had of late.

"And am I to be Mr. Knightley forever?" he asked almost as an afterthought, she was not certain if she ought to read anything into his grimace.

"I am convinced I could call you George Knightley if I were to try very hard, but as much as I try to call you by your Christian name it feels so strange, I fear I cannot,"

"And yet, I call you Emma," he remarked softly.

"Yes, but you have always called me Emma, so it is no great change or improvement, nor is it any difficulty for your mind or tongue. It would be more foreign for you to call me Miss Woodhouse," Emma replied, looking at him earnestly.

"Or Mrs. Knightley," he said reflectively.

"Yes, that is the same idea," she agreed.

"I should have no issue calling you Mrs. Knightley," he told her. "And as Mrs. Knightley, I do not mind what you call me when we are alone together, but in company I must ask that you do not call me Mr. Knightley, it is important to me that our marriage is seen to have validity, and I know you are more than capable of calling me George if you put your mind to it," he told her.

"I am skilled with words Mr. Knightley, I think I can arrange that I speak of you as my husband, and I may find that I prefer to use any number of other words that avoid the technicality of having to call you George in front of people, because as you now see, I cannot do so without blushing terribly. It is so terribly odd, I don't think I would ever become used to it,"

"I have full confidence in you, and I trust you will do as you see fit. But do trust me, if you were to ignore the strangeness; the novelty and foreign feeling would wear off quickly," he assured her.

"I am not sure I would survive the interim, what with all the blood leaving the rest of my body to flood my face," Emma smiled, nonchalantly ignoring his suggestion.

"It does sound dangerous," he deadpanned, shaking his head, seemingly to laugh at her, or with her, she was not fully sure.

"On with the tour then?" He asked looking back over his shoulder at her.

He looked boyish and happy and she could not deny that her new husband was a very attractive man.

Mr. Knightley was right to say she ought to have the grand tour. She realized that while touring the grounds and the house and outbuildings, that there was much to see that might not be the usual areas for a girl still preoccupied with dolls to see or take note of.

She could still feel her own surprise jolting up as the double doors were opened to one of the master bedrooms. It was grey and cold looking; his words surprised her but at first, she could not fully grasp why.

"This is your room, draw up any changes and Mrs. Hodges will arrange for them,"

Perhaps she thought it strange that he directed her to arrange it with his housekeeper.

She wasn't sure why it hurt so much.

Her chest felt as if it were throbbing, and she took great pains to keep her face neutral.

She would talk at length with her father over every idea, minor change, hypothesized design, silly inclination or future undertaking.

Should they reupholster the chaise, or maybe the chair? Would lily flowers be a pretty paper for the drawing room? What colour pillows should complement it best?

Could they move the dining room table to the breakfast room and get a new carved piece for entertaining?

Could they afford the silk French curtains from Lyon? Did he like olive green?

Could they get a small table for the entryway hall? Which vase would be best with the primroses for the new front table? Where could they move the portrait of their great-grandfather William—he didn't complement the roses.

It had always been a conversation topic, a joint effort and a happy pass time for both; or at very least her Papa had never voiced any displeasure over it.

Mr. Knightley was not her father.

She had not fully realized how different things would be until that moment. She struggled to make peace with the full feeling. Perhaps this was what loss felt like, the sinking sensation that nothing will ever be as it were, and that there was no imitation or replacement.

She could never go back to how things had always been.

"Yes, I will. I'm sure it will be fine as it is," she told him making a full effort to be agreeable. All she wanted now was to retreat to the depth of the grey solitude promised by the heavy fabric curtains and dull looking burgundy damask paper.

The whole of the room was somber and grey; while it suited her mood, it would do nothing to lift her spirits.

"No need to be modest Emma. This room is tired, dreary and worn; My mother was not a proprietor for anything lively or fascinating; I am sure you will make many changes," he laughed.

She nodded, "I will speak to Mrs. Hodges if changes are necessary,"

"Very well, your things have been brought up and your maid is near if you wish to change before supper," Mr. Knightley told her.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Knightley," she replied and watched as she turned and left her in the grim room.

* * *

A/N: Hey all, if you've ever felt inclined to review please do so now! I've been having such a stressful week-I am waiting to hear back on some job applications. I really just need some encouragement (want to feel like something is going right!)


	5. The House Isn't a Home

Thank you all for the kind words and encouragement! I got a job, which is why my posts have been far less frequent. I am hoping as I get into the groove with my job that I will be able to continue writing. Chapters might take longer to upload but I am certainly eager to continue on both of these stories. Also, check out my other story if you haven't already!

Cheers & Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

The House Isn't a Home

* * *

She had almost wanted to ask the servants to sit with them in the dining room. Everything had been impossibly quiet.

She resisted the temptation and it had not been completely unbearable.

Mr. Knightley had attempted conversation and offered ideas on topics that would have interested her under normal circumstances, but she hadn't found herself to be in her usual spirits.

She wished with her whole heart that her father were there to remark about the tenderness of the pork and to follow with a testimony of the virtues of cooking pork to the perfect degree to avoid encountering an insurmountable list of ailments.

She would have given anything in the world to hear his long speech about boils or even the many dangers of draughty windows.

She felt sullen and was sure her features were subdued in contrast to her normal appearance.

Overall, dinner had been fine—and in her estimation—fine simply meant that she had successfully avoided bursting into tears over the gravity of it all. One must take joy in small successes.

In all likelihood, Mr. Knightley probably had not noticed. And if Mr. Knightley had thought anything, he certainly had not said anything about it.

She had not thought she would be so altered. She was not sure if it was the newness of everything, or if it was merely that certain days would be more painful than others.

Perhaps this day, her wedding day, was simply preordained to be one of the painful days.

She didn't want to think about everything that she had lost; about all the moments that could never be again.

Her father had played such an instrumental role in her life; she had never fully understood how key a piece he had been in her happiness until his death.

Not everyone was so fortunate as to have someone who listened as they talked. She presumed he had listened; he did not interrupt her lengthy ideas or rants and he did not fall asleep and on the rare occasion he would give a reply to some idea or questions.

No, he did not like puce.

Yes, he liked the idea of lilies on wallpaper, as the actual flowers made him sneeze and caused his sinus congestion to flare up. And then he gave a powerful testimony to why he believed that there were few things more vexing than sinus problems.

It had escaped her notice in the past but he had also been the central feature in her relationship with Mr. Knightley as well. The majority of their interactions had been with her father at their side.

While her father did not often say much, aside from recommendations and making predictions over ailments, he brought a stability that seemed missing over dinner.

They no longer had a guy wire to set their course. Emma had always been the voice of chipper optimism to contrast her father's doubts and woes. She wasn't at all sure she had the strength to pretend for Mr. Knightley. It wasn't for lack of desire—she did care deeply for Mr. Knightley's feelings; instead, it was a question of practical feasibility.

She had retired after eating very little and she felt as dour and grey as her chambers. The dull grey walls stared back at her from her spot on the bed.

She wasn't sure if the walls influenced her mood or if her mood influenced her assessment of the walls. They were drab and remorseless; if nothing else she was certain that Caroline Knightley, at best, had enjoyed no taste for colour and, at worst, had a fondness for bitter solitude.

She wondered silently if her late mother-in-law would have received her warmly or not. She had never heard her spoken of, but to say that she had died when both George and John Knightley had been away at Eton.

Emma had not given any sort of thought to the circumstances of her death. It was well before she had been born. Yet, in the darkness of the room, Emma had a curiosity to know what had happened to the late Mrs. Knightley. She felt an eerie sense that the very walls had trapped misery and loneliness that went beyond the paint hue.

As she sat in bed she felt the chills that rolled of the dark walls. The whole room seemed frozen, frozen in time with the colours and fashions, frozen in reality with the sharp cold feeling that echoed.

Despite her earlier thoughts, Emma decided she might need to make adjustments after all. Truly, she couldn't be remotely happy if the very walls haunted her.

She would have her maid put another log on the fire. Or perhaps Mr. Knightley would.

She bit her lip.

She was not entirely sure what was expected of her. Their conversation over dinner had been as normal as could be given the circumstances.

He had given her no indication of what his intentions were.

When he spoke of her duties pertaining to the house he had stated that she take on as much or as little as she felt prepared for and he had acknowledged that she may need time to adjust.

Perhaps he would allow her that in all regards.

Yet, he seemed concerned about the validity of their marriage. He had even asked that she call him by his Christian name in the presence of other people. She easily recalled Mr. Knightley's grimace at her retention of what ought to have been his former title.

She was not certain she understood him, or at least not to a degree of predicting his future behaviour.

Mr. Knightley had surprised her at the wedding when he had kissed her. The kiss was warm, pleasant, and smooth but she hardly had the time to dwell on it before it was over. Since it was not required of him, she had assumed that he would not kiss her. But he had, and she was not sure what it meant in terms of his intentions.

It was his right after all.

If he would kiss her when it was not required, surely he would be diligent in carrying out the required action. Mr. Knightley was nothing if not methodical, he had a careful, detailed approach to life and business, and a keen regard for law and duty.

It seemed the longer she thought about it the more convinced she was that he would enter at any moment.

She couldn't abate the panic she felt or dim the sense of dread.

It was as if Mrs. Weston had told her all too much and exactly not enough all in the same moment.

All she could hear above the sound of her heartbeat in her ears was Mrs. Weston voice saying, "Husbands want affection from their wives" ad nauseam.

The imagined tone was nothing like the original; instead, it seemed grating and condemning, as if it was only looking to provoke fear.

For while she did have affection for Mr. Knightley as a friend, her dearest friend, she had no understanding of the affection Mrs. Weston spoke of and was not certain she was capable of it.

Every creak of the floorboards, rattle of sound or clatter had her on high alert.

This was it.

He would be here at any moment.

Her heart frenzied.

Her mind raced with questions.

What should she say?

Was she meant to say anything?

What should she think of?

How was she expected to act?

Silence would set in bringing momentary calm and then new sounds would resonant and reset the cycle.

Her eyes felt tired and heavy, blinking them open and closed in periodic increments allowed her to stay wakeful as long as she could.

It was the early morning hours before she relented and drifted into a muddled sleep, which was restless and interrupted with bad dreams.

"Don't touch it!" Isabella told her pulling at the scarf in Emma's hands.

"But it is Papa's," Emma insisted pulling it back, "and I would like to keep it,"

"It was Papa's" Isabella corrected, "It belongs to Henry now. It is his inheritance, after all,"

"But I bought it for Papa in Highbury last Christmas," Emma protested, wiping tears from her eyes with her free hand and gripping the scarf tighter.

"Let it go!" Isabella insisted.

"I want to keep it,"

"You can't keep it!"

"But it should be mine," Emma retorted.

"You've done enough! You have already taken enough," Isabella snapped, pulling the scarf firmly and causing Emma to stumble. Emma let go of the scarf to catch herself with her hands as she fell to the floor.

"I've taken nothing!" Emma protested, "You've left me nothing of Papa's!"

"Well, you've taken all of Donwell, surely that is enough!"

"Give me the scarf," Emma demanded, weakly trying to grasp it back. Isabella held it out of reach.

"No, it couldn't be enough for you, could it?" Isabella jeered. "You would never be satisfied, not even with your new husband," Isabella laughed.

Emma woke in a sweat, the light was streaming through the windows and she felt completely sick.

"Are you all right mama?" her maid would ask her through the day as she watched Emma dab sweat from her forehead.

"I think I am feverish, it will pass, nothing to be concerned over," Emma told her.

"Shall I let Mr. Knightley know ma'ma?" she asked.

Emma shook her head vigorously, "No, that is not necessary,"

"He may wish to fetch Doctor Perry," her maid suggested.

"No, it is not serious, I'm hardly unwell," she insisted.

"Very well ma'ma," her maid nodded with a curtsy.

She was not all right. It seemed most unfortunate that her heavy spirits would be further hampered by sickness.

She would spend the next week mostly in bed, with Dr. Perry checking in, despite her protests to the contrary.

She was sick enough that her protests were rather weightless and she hadn't the energy to place anything more than words into the struggle.

It was no surprise to any that knew her that she was up and outside as soon as the sickness broke. She had felt so trapped and confined and it was worse to have the Doctor fusing over her at all.

She found a footpath that led up and away from the estate. The cold air felt such a relief to her lungs and brought clarity to her mind as well. She was thankful to feel well again, having spent the past week in a groggy and sweaty stupor.

She was halfway down a pathway that led towards Randalls when she noticed a horse and rider.

The rider kept turning the horse and peering in each direction of the crossway.

"Sir, are you lost?" Emma called out, feeling comforted that her voice did not sound as if she had spent the entire week in bed.

"Not a bit," the gentleman smiled. He had bright eyes and curly hair that was windswept and disheveled and yet pleasing all at the same time.

"Are you certain? I've lived in this area my whole life, I would be able to direct you anywhere you pleased to go, I am quite sure,"

"Ah, a fair maiden of the woods, or are you an elf creature—Yes, I think an elf creature. What should I call you?" He teased.

"I am Emma Woodhouse," She told him out of habit, feeling suddenly shocked as awareness dawned on her. She was not Emma Woodhouse, a name which came so naturally to her lips and mind. She was someone else now and how would she remember it.

"Well, Emma Woodhouse I apologize, it seems after all you are a maiden of the woods," he said with a grin that reached even his eyes. "Emma Woodhouse, it has been a pleasure! I will be sure to ask you directions should I ever require them in the future, good day," he smiled, turned his horse in a direction opposite to Highbury and the moved his horse into motion. At the turn, he gave a quick wave and set his horse into a canter.

What a strange encounter Emma thought as she walked back towards Donwell, what a different young man. He was a gentleman to be clear, but she had never been teased before in such a casual way.

She wondered where he was headed and if he would ever need directions in the future.


	6. The Moniker

**Chapter 6**

The Moniker

* * *

She had thought more than she would have liked to admit about the rider she had met in the woods near the crossway.

She had wondered at his presence but heard nothing about him in town when she went for her regular visit to the Bates'. That was uncommon, especially considering that it was a gentleman she had met. And that he was clearly, from his mannerisms and his dress, a gentleman in good standing who would have undoubtedly had connections.

Surely even the Bates' would know about a new arrival in town, and one knew without question that what Miss Bates knew of, she also spoke of at length.

As Miss Bates had said nothing on the topic, it must have been the case that he had not come from town.

It was a strong rationale, but it left the question as to where he had come from.

Where had he come from?

Where indeed, with his teasing manner and smooth way of talking?

Where had he been going where he could say with confidence, after looking down every path that he was not one bit lost?

And how had he looked so serious and genuine as he teased her calling her an elf creature?

And then she had given him her name, her old name. It almost caused her cheeks to flush. She had not meant to mislead him.

She did not feel it fair that she should lose her entire name; it was everything she had been since birth. Emma Woodhouse.

But now she was only Emma.

And she knew she would never feel at home in the name Emma Knightley. It seemed so regal, so ancient, so harsh.

Mrs. Knightley was, if anything, perhaps more austere.

She would have to remember in the future that she was not Emma Woodhouse.

And now to remember would be an entirely different matter.

It would take time to understand it fully. She could only hope that in the meantime she would not mess up too badly.

Afterall, it was one thing to mess up with a perfect stranger whom one met on the road and who was very likely not to be seen again. It was quite another to introduce oneself in a group or at a party with an old name.

She imagined the sort of scene it might cause and felt almost clammy thinking of it.

She wasn't sure why any of it should matter. What was in a name after all? What people were called shouldn't matter overly much and yet it had great significance.

Why should she cease to be Emma Woodhouse?

It wasn't as if she could forget who she was.

Emma Woodhouse had been a name spoken with great affection by all that had known her.

And now the name was no more. No one, save maybe herself, in error (should she not learn to do better quickly), would speak her former name again.

It was as if that person had died.

It wasn't as if she would forget her new role, her new household or her new husband without a new name.

She knew she was connected to Mr. Knightley now. She did not need to bare his namesake to be clear on that point.

"Emma?" Mr. Knightley's hand was on her shoulder and she jolted from her daydream.

"Mr. Knightley!" She exclaimed as she startled. His hand on her shoulder had surprised her. It brought to her attention that she had not recalled him touching her in times past. Save for his consoling her after her father's death, he had never been a very tactile friend, and in those days it would not have been appropriate.

"I hadn't intended to frighten you," he apologized. "I have been calling you but you were somewhere else," he told her motioning to the space around her head. "Are you feeling alright?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes. I was just daydreaming," she told him offering a small smile.

"I had been wondering if you wanted to take a walk and then have tea," he asked.

"Yes, I think that would be nice, I have been sitting here, and living all in my head all afternoon," she accepted.

"Is there anything in particular on your mind?"

"Oh not really, I was thinking about titles," Emma offered.

"You were thinking about titles?"

"Yes, names and what people are called," she clarified.

"Ah, I see, and what has you thinking about names, titles and what people are called?"

"I have both gained and lost a name. Does it not feel strange to you that you will never hear the name, Emma Woodhouse?"

"I had not thought of it before, it is not as great a hardship for me as I have only ever called you Emma," he reflected, and she almost wondered if she heard a hint of the teasing note that she heard in the tone of the gentleman from the woods.

She and Mr. Knightley exited into the back garden and began walking.

"Why do you think it is that women must change their name upon marriage?"

"I think that men want to share their name and that a woman when in love, wants to bear their husband's name,"

"But women took their husband's name long before love matches were popular," Emma retorted, "Our arrangement has more common with most of history than love matches. Even just fifty years ago, love had little to do with it,"

"Oh but love wasn't counted out simply because a marriage was arranged," he told her, "Is that it, Emma? Is that what has you worried? Are you worried that I won't love you? Or are you more concerned that you won't love me?" He asked, and she was almost certain this time that she detected that same teasing tone she had never understood him to use.

"I am at present thinking very seriously about the death of the name Emma Woodhouse, it was a good name and I will miss it," she told him with an earnest tone in trade for his jesting.

"And when you are done anguishing over the loss of your name, then surely you will move on to consider my question,"

"If you persist to tease me, Mr. Knightley, it will make me vexed and such feeling is known to diminish the quality and enjoyment of both walking and tea," she tossed back making a few paces of ground on him.

She would swear she heard his stifled laugh and yet she had never known him to chuckle at or tease her. She wanted to confirm her suspicion but she could not bring herself to forego the pride of it and glance backward at him to settle it. She continued walking from him at a clipped pace, the only solace is that she was certain nothing would please him more than to goad her and that alone irked her and spurred her on all the same.

* * *

She startled awake and bit her lip not to scream.

Carolyn Knightley had been in her dream, had placed her cold fingers against Emma's cheek.

She placed her own hand against her cheek; it was as cold as ice. So cold, it could have easily have been touched and frozen by that ghostly hand.

Heavens, she was a haunting figure, stern, morose and dressed in black.

Emma tried to subdue her panicking heart. Her room was silent, save her rapid breathing and it was clear to her that there was no one else there.

It was after all completely logical; well save for the icy fingers she imagined she could still feel against her cheek.

It was reasonable because she had been looking, with interest, at the picture of Carolyn Knightley in the back hall.

Emma discerned she was a proud woman, her chin and the expression on her face made that clear. She appeared to be a great lady, her stern brow suggested that she knew every tactic and had no plans to concede to anyone. She looked strict as well, perhaps more so because her hair was pulled back harshly from her face, revealing her cheekbones and giving her eyebrows more of a striking appearance.

Emma tried to understand what the emotion was that was in Mrs. Knightley's eyes. And was it a true emotion or something placed there by the artist?

Emma considered that of all her friends, Miss Bates would likely know and remember well what had befallen the last Mrs. Knightley. The challenge there would be how to seamlessly interrupt the latest news for Jane Fairfax without raising questions. Miss. Bates dearly loved talking about Jane; any topic that drifted outside of the close proximity of Jane was typically redirected back onto darling Jane.

The last time she had been at the Bates' there was talk about Jane being in Cardiff with her good and faithful friends the Campbells. It would be difficult to feign a connection to the late Mrs. Knightley.

She wanted so badly to understand how Mrs. Knightley had died. While she could have the answer with a simple question to Mr. Knightley, she felt certain that she did not wish to ask Mr. Knightley directly.

After such keen analysis, it made perfect sense why Mrs. Knightley would play a role in her dream. It was completely logical.

Her words, however, seemed less logical. Emma was not sure where their roots lay.

Mrs. Knightley all but told her that her son did not want her. Emma felt the same feeling of offense rise in her that she felt as she had dreamed it.

She wanted to protest, of course, he wanted her, he had married her when it was not required that he do so. He was her dearest friend.

"He did not need a friend, he needed a wife—nay he deserved a wife as capable as he is,"

"I am capable," Emma assured; Mrs. Knightley caught her eye sharply then, looking unimpressed and scathing.

"He deserves more, you know it as well as I,"

Emma couldn't reply.

"I understand you have recently lost your father, but if you will not be a true wife to my son, you shall lose more still,"

"I do not understand; but I assure you, Mr. Knightley has saved me from any further losses,"

"Mr. Knightley," she said in a sharp tone with a scoff.

Then the woman, for Emma did not believe after all that she was truly Mrs. Knightley, reached out to touch her face in what appeared a gesture of sympathy.

Her icy hands touched Emma's face and she felt at once the woman was a ghost, so cold, so stiff as if her flesh was made entirely of ice.

It was at that moment that Emma jolted awake and did everything in her power not to scream. Every fiber of her being expected to see a corpse leaning over her bed with hands at her face; instead she was met by perfect darkness and the silence of the large room.

* * *

Since her illness, she had found her room unbearably cold. It was as if the fire was unable to warm even the bottom foot of her bed and it felt to her that the entire room was iced over.

At first, she was convinced the solution was to build the fire bigger with more logs but this did not seem to make any grand effect.

She added additional blankets and quilts but these were not warm of themselves and her body was so cold it felt as if the window pane was warmer than her own skin.

It was not just the temperature. Since her dream with the haunting figure that looked keenly like Mrs. Knightley, she found sleep abated her easily and without the slightest provocation.

She wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she felt lonely and at times pangs of hopelessness in the nighttime hours.

She had on a whim imagined a solution that might solve for each issue. Fear, cold and companionship all at once.

Mr. Knightley had an Irish Wolfhound, named Virgil, which slept in Mr. Knightley's study. Virgil was sure to be warm and it should not matter to a dog if he slept on the study floor or in a four-poster bed. In fact, a comfortable bed should be a happy luxury when compared to the hardwood floor. Additionally, the dog was clean. The dog had likely received more baths at the care of the housekeeper than the average child might from a doting mother.

People of old, and royal families, in particular, had the long-standing tradition of having dogs to provide them warmth through the night. Unlike a hot water bottle or iron with coals, all through the night, even on the coldest of nights the dog would still be warm come morning.

It seemed the perfect solution.

The dog was heavy and less willing than she had originally assumed. It was a rather stubborn animal. It was after all a hunting companion, and she had little doubt that it was spoilt by its master. She was instantly grateful that it was late and dark and the all the servants were sleeping. This way no one would see her in her nightdress as she prodded and pulled the dog in the direction of her room.

She considered that it may have been easier if she had thought ahead to bring a treat for the dog. Yet, it was late in the night and she was cold at the moment. At the mere thought of the warm, cuddly dog she did not have the willpower to put off the plan until she was better prepared with bait for bribery.

"Virgil" she hissed pulling at him again as he tried to pull his way down the hall in the opposing direction. The dog made no appearance of responding to its name.

Finally, she grasped the collar and turned its head as one might a horse, setting its direction again on the proper course towards her room.

If moving the dog the distance from the study to her room seemed an impossible task, then she believed it would be of an equal challenge if not greater to get the dog up on the four-poster bed.

It was to her great surprise that Virgil leapt up onto the bed with ease and no resistance what so ever.

As she climbed on to the bed herself she had the fleeting thought, "Perhaps this dog was not quite as misbehaved as she had felt short moments earlier,"

No sooner had she thought it, then had the dog moved to stand directly on her chest, with one massive paw against her right shoulder. In the same moment, the dog began licking her face.

"Virgil, stop," she sputtered, it was ineffective.

Virgil almost seemed encouraged by her protest and she started laughing hysterically and the dog continued to slime her.

Her laughter tumbled out as she made efforts to push him off of her.

"Virgil!" She groaned out, unable to free her shoulder.

"What is going on?" Mr. Knightley's rich baritone cut in over her high pitched protest.

"Virgil—I thought— Virgil " Emma babbled now with only the excuse of surprise as Virgil had stopped licking her face the moment he heard his master speak.

"If it were anyone else, Emma, I'd assume there was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but I'd never expect one from you, " Mr. Knightley's offered tongue in cheek followed by a teasing laugh.

The massive dog had his head and ears turned towards Mr. Knightley but remained with his front paws standing on her chest and shoulder, effectively pinning her.

"You look at me as if I am deranged. Each night I have been so impossibly cold. And before you offer suggestions, I do set the fire and I have used extra logs but it is not enough and end up waking with my whole body feeling entirely frozen. So I had it that the perfect solution was to bring the dog to share body heat and help me stay warm. And don't look at me like that, I am not crazy, it was done by royalty in France for many years, very popular.

"Yes, small dogs Emma, lap dogs, which would prevent your current predicament…" Mr. Knightley told her and as he said it, he simultaneously reaches over and pulled her nightdress from where it had ridden up on her thighs directly down to where it normally sat at her ankle.

She fought the blush. This was her husband after all; it was not untoward that he should see her like this. Well, minus the dog standing over her trapping her in place, which would be moderately embarrassing for anyone. "Virgil off," Mr. Knightley said and the dog listened at once stepping off Emma's chest and jumping down immediately.

"You act as if the plan was deeply flawed, despite minor complications—due solely to your dog being spoilt and unruly—I still think it is most brilliant as it doubles as a solution to loneliness as well."

"You have been lonely, Emma?" He asked all pretenses of humour gone and replaced by a very serious tone and features.

"Well, it has not been so bad, when you say it like that it sounds so very serious. It was simply a minor and sometimes momentary feeling," Emma confided.

"Emma, if you were lonely you should have told me,"

"I desperately do not wish to be an inconvenience; after all, it isn't as if you would have a better solution to my cold and loneliness—and what that you would take the dog's place?" Emma giggled but then cut herself off at seeing his face; her husband was standing only in his own long nightshirt with a robe clearly thrown on in haste but not tied, hanging loosely at his shoulders.

Had she really just insinuated that he replace the dog with his own figure?

She must have blushed purple.

"I meant it only as—"She began feeling the strain of anxiety and embarrassment.

"I know what you meant and yes I would replace the dog should you find that acceptable."

She couldn't even respond, she just stared as if lightning struck at his words.

"It would not be a poor solution by comparison; you would find I have far better manners than Virgil,"

She nodded mutely, intending to agree with the statement that he had better manners than Virgil, and it seemed that her gesture was taken to stand for acceptance of the idea itself.

"Well, you'll have to move over slightly, it'll be like camping," he told her.

"Camping?" she said in confusion as she moved over making space for him.

"Yes, didn't you and Isabella build forts in the woods?" he asked, taking the space that she had vacated and laying on his back looking at the ceiling.

It was all done so very casually as if this was the most normal thing in the world to him.

"Yes certainly, but we were never brave enough to sleep in them!"

"Well, perhaps you were wiser than your Knightley neighbours. John and I attempted it, to sleep in our fort out in the woods on the west side of the estate, farthest from the house."

She smiled, it was not so bad having him near and talking to her.

"You have piqued my interest, Mr. Knightley, what happened next?" she asked.

"It was solidly dark when it started to rain. John and I spent a while bickering over whether to stick it out or return home. You see, it was colder than we anticipated, we even had a mattress and bedding but everything was wet from rain and we were both cold and both petrified of the animals that might be out in the darkness."

"The animals?"

"Ah yes, the animals. John was certain that he'd seen a wolf in the woods a few weeks before!"

She giggled at that, "There are no wolves in our area; there haven't been for hundreds of years!"

"Yes, I think even John is willing to own that what he saw was a large dog, but at the time it was enough of a possibility to keep John and I were huddled together shoulder to shoulder until two in the morning, at which time our fears of nature and the woods were outweighed by cold and the desire to sleep,"

"I like your stories Mr. Knightley," Emma confided sleepily.

"I'm glad Emma, sleep well," he said and as she relaxed her shoulder pressed against his and she felt the warmth he had been talking about.

"Camping is nice," she murmured.

And she felt more so than heard his chuckle as it reverberated into her where their shoulders touched. He looped his arm around her then and tugged her closer to his side.

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It has been forever! Sorry! Review if you are still interested in this story continuing and I will put more effort into it.

Thanks for the support!


	7. The Impasse

**Chapter 7**

The Impasse

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You will recognize some of Jane Austen's words interspersed. I did some adjusting and maneuvering of what the original had. This seemed a better fit for the Harriet scene; you'll recognize what is hers and what is not. Not meant to be plagiarism, simply a scene that would better be left as close to the original as possible. Cheers!

Mr. Knightley had been correct.

It had not been a poor solution and true to his word he had far better manners than Virgil.

If should not have been too great a surprise. Afterall, as much as Emma often refused to admit it, he was generally right about most things.

That said, she did her best not to allow the fact that she knew this to be true to reach Mr. Knightley's awareness. It would do nothing but inflate his pride and go to his head.

Men needn't think themselves right all of the time, and for this reason, she wouldn't encourage it in her husband.

She had also been correct in that another body seemed to prove just the solution to the coldness to which she had grown hopelessly accustomed. It had been three nights since the adjustment and she had gotten quite used to waking up feeling warm and having a warm arm draped over her shoulder or waist.

It solved for the pangs of loneliness that she had been faced with up until that point. Emma felt there was something about talking to Mr. Knightley at night that put her mind at ease. It was reminiscent of the hours they would spend at the fire talking with her father into the evening, sometimes as Mr. Woodhouse was sleeping in his chair. And yet it was closer than those moments; more intimate in that they were directly next to one another, she could feel him breathing next to her, and no other person was present.

It was also an easy cure for the fear and nightmares that had been a fixture since her father's death. Most noticeable was that Mrs. Knightley had not trespassed on her dreams since Mr. Knightley was at her side. For this, she was eternally thankful.

Everything indicated that the new routine was a good one and that they ought to continue with the new system. Provided Mr. Knightley found it as agreeable as she did; he had not voiced an opinion otherwise and did not seem dissatisfied, yet she hadn't the bravery to ask him directly what his thoughts were on their new sleeping arraignment. She did not wish to imagine the awkwardness of bringing up that subject, the sheer thought of it caused a blush and made her want to push it from her mind and think nothing more of it.

Emma was expecting Harriet Smith to arrive any moment for tea. She busied herself in the front parlor checking to make sure the fire was hot enough, moving a flower arrangement to an area more to her liking.

Donwell was beautiful, it was clean and polished and dwarfed Hartfield in sheer size. But despite its size, it was not austere or unwelcoming—well, save for Mrs. Knightley's room which was an unfortunate coincidence.

Emma could perfectly imagine hosting a ball at Donwell; the rooms were large enough for dancing. The attractiveness of the instrument alone would encourage duets and provide entertainment.

It would make the Coles' party seem a sad affair, and although they were in trade, Emma had thought they had hosted some of the more entertaining parties, and yet she could never speak it aloud.

She would have to ask Mr. Knightley if she might host a party—although she could not imagine him saying no. It reminded her of what Isabella had hissed at her in a rage more than a month prior. She could not find a falsehood in what her sister had claimed then, although she had not wished to hear it at the time.

Emma had had Mr. Knightley wrapped around her finger since her childhood. And as Isabella had said, he did not have any greater chance telling her no than any of the rest of the family had.

She knew her sister had intended it to hurt her. And at the time it had.

Yet with time and reflection, it seemed the statement was true.

She felt it was not a bad thing, nor a good thing, simply true. Though she thought she might be mindful not to take advantage of the fact.

Harriet Smith arrived then retrieving her from her reverie.

Emma was glad for the distraction.

Harriet was in a state unlike Emma had ever seen, she had not known her to be one of high spirits or much energy and yet as she entered Emma felt she looked almost frantic.

"Oh Emma, I have so much to say and I am not certain enough air in my lungs or thoughts in my head to rightly express it! I returned home from walking and I learned that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before. As I was not at home, he left a parcel and in addition to the return of some music I had lent to his sister, there was also a letter enclosed from Mr. Martin himself"

True to her word, Harriet paused to gasp for air. The pause was short lived as she quickly continued again.

"As you may have expected, this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin and it contained a direct proposal of marriage!"

"Who could have thought it?" Harriet giggled with surprise. She was so surprised she did not know what to do with herself. She turned her hands together.

In her nervousness she kept talking, "Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least I thought so. And he wrote as if he really loves me very much—partly I am out of breath because I came here as fast as I was able. I knew that you would know exactly what I should do!" Harriet explained.

Emma was shocked, perfectly shocked and somewhat mortified by her friend's wild reaction.

She was also an even mixture of humored and ashamed at seeing Harriet such a combination of pleasure and doubtfully confusion.

It was impossibly rude of this Mr. Martin to fix his sentiments in a letter as he had, amongst the post from his sister as well; it almost seemed a perfect afterthought.

Emma almost scoffed aloud but somehow contained the disdain she felt rising.

"Upon my word," she cried, "this Mr. Martin is determined not to lose anything for want of asking."

Harriet did not seem to notice her reaction or at least did not shy away from it.

"It is a very good letter, might you read it?" Harriet ask thrusting the letter towards Emma quickly, her hands moving as her mouth did, rapidly and wildly.

Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read and was surprised. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were no grammatical errors, but as a composition, it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer.

It was short but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?"

"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly—"so good a letter, Harriet, that everything considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. And yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. It is better written than I had expected." Emma concluded feeling she hadn't more to say, and handing the letter back to Harriet.

"Well," Harriet spoke," well—and—and what shall I do?"

"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?"

"Yes."

"Well, you must answer it of course—and speedily."

"Yes. But what shall I say? Oh please, do advise me!" Harriet exclaimed.

"Oh no, Harriet, the letter must be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment."

"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.

"Ought to refuse him? Oh, my dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to the nature of your reply? I thought—perhaps I have been under some confusion. I certainly have been misunderstanding you. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it."

Harriet was silent. With a reserved of manner, that seemed contradictory to the frantic manner of mere minutes earlier.

Emma continued, "I gather that you mean to return a favourable answer,"

"No, I do not—that is—I don't know. What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Please, friend, tell me what I ought to do."

"No Harriet, I shall not give you any advice on that. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."

"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter.

For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to `Yes,' she ought to say `No' directly."

Harriet looked wide-eyed at Emma, "As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say `No,' perhaps.—Do you think I had better say `No?'"

"Not for the world would I advise you either way. Harriet, you must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does anybody else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion."

Harriet had the appearance of a person in deep thought, her brows were pressed tightly and her lips pressed outward in concentration.

Emma waited for the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said— "As you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?"

"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself the joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you forever."

"Let us celebrate this decision with tea and cakes and then you will pen the letter that will politely and graciously refuse Mr. Martin. It will not be a pleasant business but the delightful cakes cook makes will surely give you the fortitude and strength needed!" Emma encouraged.

Harriet nodded thoughtfully.

It seemed to Emma ages from when Harriet had penned the letter and left for Mrs. Goddard's to the time Mr. Knightley returned home.

She would not tell him that she had missed him, but that seemed to be the feeling that best described the sentiment she had felt.

After the wild morning, the house had felt rather subdued and empty after Harriet had left; Harriet herself was in a much more relaxed mood. Emma felt as if that alone was a sure sign that something had been done correctly.

"You are home at last," Emma stated smiling slightly, mostly preoccupied with observing her husband as he entered.

"Yes, I am home, and later than expected but you will not be cross with me when you find out the cause. A few days ago I met with a tenant and businessman who farms at Abbey-Mill on happenstance. We both had business near the market at Abbey-Mill and he had a burning question on his mind a sought my advice,"

"I see, and he felt you might give him the answer he sought?" Emma nodded, feeling she knew how this story would conclude but urged him to continue.

"Yes, he wanted an unbiased opinion on his business affairs and ultimately the word of someone he respected on whether he was in a suitable place to be married,"

Emma nodded. "Tea?" she asked him and he nodded agreement as he continued. "He told me all about his current circumstances and his plans for improvement and expansion. I give him credit; he is a smart man who has made intelligent investments and works hard to run his farm. His ideas for expansion were sound as well, it is clear he has a sense of timing and a high degree of resourcefulness. I told him I saw nothing that should prevent a marriage,"

"Surely he was very pleased, I dare say you made his day" Emma told him "and you are right, I am not mad that you are later than expected, you have done a good thing," Emma smiled cheerfully at him, handing him a cup of tea.

"Well, that is just it, that conversation was days ago and just this day as I was returning by way of the north road to Highbury I passed the farmer, Mr. Martin,"

"Mr. Martin!" Emma exclaimed.

"Yes, the very same," Mr. Knightley confided. "It turns out that he needed to come to Highbury for business and the timing of meeting me a few days prior could not have been better."

"This is very surprising," Emma stated, unable to look fully at her husband's face. He looked so pleased with himself and so happy for his friend.

"Yes, and yet the surprise is still greater. Emma, I have reason to think that your good friend, Harriet Smith, will soon have an offer of marriage" he told her, his voice was almost a whisper but his tone had an upbeat zeal that allowed her insight into his opinion of the matter. Her own husband felt this to be a good thing.

He took her silence for shock and continued, "This summer, Harriet visited Abbey-Mill, and since that time he has been desperately in love and know that he now means to marry her."

"Oh, naturally he is agreeable to the idea of marrying Harriet," said Emma "but is he so certain that Harriet means to marry him?"

"He is an excellent farmer and a good man, and at the summer visit, it was clear her feelings for Mr. Martin were amiable. She could have no reason to refuse him," Mr. Knightley stated

"Oh, yes I forgot. It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. "Emma let out a giggle to soften the words. There was something about her husband's words 'she could have no reason to refuse' that placed her on edge and incited her to spar with him.

He looked surprised, "I should have said it is unlikely that she will refuse," he corrected, watching her face as if trying to discern the shift in her mood.

"It is not so unlikely!" Emma stated with a pique spirit and then a sigh, "I see it is my turn to tell you something, your friend Mr. Martin did speak, or rather he left his query in a note amidst another post if you will believe it, and he was refused."

"Are you certain?" Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprise and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said, "Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the foolish girl about?"

"The fault is not with Harriet! It is not her fault that a man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her." Emma announced with a scoff, standing to be on the same footing as her husband.

"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refused Robert Martin! This is madness, if it is true but I hope you are mistaken."

"I am not mistaken, I saw her answer!—it could not have been clearer."

"You saw her answer! What you mean to say is that you wrote her answer! Oh, Emma, this is your doing. It angers me so deeply to know it. I believe that you persuaded her to refuse him."

"I will not own to that Mr. Knightley, but if I did dissuade her, I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin though a very respectable young man is not Harriet's equal; and I was shocked that he would have ventured to address her."

"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer brusqueness, added, a few moments afterward, "No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connection higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful and is too young and too simple to have acquired anything herself. At her age, she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connection for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability, he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, `Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'"

"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of me as to say any such thing!" Emma offered in a gasped out huff. This was entirely incredulous! A farmer, a simple farmer, excellent or not, could not be a match for her intimate friend. She told him as much and watched the colour climb his face.

He was not pleased. Well, neither was she, it suited that he should be disgruntled as well.

"I know you are a friend of Robert Martin, but you have not treated my friend favorably in your estimation. She has better sense than you are aware of and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly. You describe her as only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of a hundred; and until it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; until they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power to pick and choose. Her good-nature too is an asset. I am very much mistaken if your sex, in general, would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess."

"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do."

"To be sure!" cried she playfully. "I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and choose. Were you, yourself, unmarried, she is the very woman for you. And is at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look around and consider her options!"

"Emma, I am disappointed and frustrated that you have given your friend unwise counsel. You have given her such wild ideas of her own beauty and an imagination full of what her rightful claim might have been. Sadly, this will be to Harriet's disservice as nobody within your imagined pool of suitors will want her because of all she lacks and the Robert Martins will be refused because nobody within her actual reach will be good enough for her "said Mr. Knightley sternly.

"It is not as you say!" Emma countered.

"Emma, men of sense, whatever you may say, do not want silly wives!"

"Well—that! I say—"She was speechless and sputtering and he was walking away. "You cannot just ignore me!" and he seemed to be doing exactly that as he moved farther from her. "George!" She called out in haste after him and thought for a moment he might turn back to look at her, but he kept his pace and quit the room.

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A/N: Here you are! Very much appreciated all the feedback and encouragement last chapter. Thank you so much for the reviews, they warmed my heart!


	8. The Ripple

Chapter 8

 **The Ripple**

Hey all, sorry for the long delay which some have mentioned in reviews! I do so appreciate the reviews and it is truly wonderful to hear feedback and that you are enjoying.

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"Men of sense do not want silly wives!" Mr. Knightley's words skittered through her mind like the skipping rocks she was tossing. She hadn't sat and tossed rock since she was young—the last recollection was when she was flummoxed and feeling overwrought about her math figures.

Mathematics would have been a welcomed treat in comparison to how she felt at present. She was a mixture of emotion. On reflection, she had never felt more shame, misery, and infuriation all in one moment.

Shame she knew the source. She thought over the entire conversation they had in the parlor. He did not normally mince words, he may as well have said he did not want her as his wife.

He had told her it was better to be senseless than to misapply reason the way she did. In essence proving her to be silly, but with fuller sentences and enhanced vocabulary.

In fact, the way he argued his case left no doubt that he believed her to be silly. The word almost felt poisonous to her now.

His argument was full of sound reason and moderated frustration. The determination of his conviction begged the question as to how long exactly he had believed this to be the case.

Tears leaked out at that deeper inspection.

She wasn't what he had wanted. He made her feel shame over giving Harriet honest council.

Misery was clear-cut as well. He was her greatest friend. The one person she would never expect to dissert her or turn against her.

To present, he had stood with her through it all. She had clung to him in the wake of her father's death. He had taken her under his wing as only the kindest of friends would. Even when Isabella had argued for Emma's return to London, he had stood by her, defended her and protected her and everything she held dear.

And yet at the slightest provocation—no—at the slightest offense to a lowly farmer—he has her labeled silly, foolish and unthinking. He tells her in not so many words that he wishes it was undone.

Yes, while he may not have said it aloud, she felt it in her very bones that he would take his choice back if he could. It was implied in everything he had spoken to her in the parlor.

Afterall, Mr. Knightley prided himself on being a sensible man. If anyone that knew him was asked to give but one character descriptive, Emma was certain that nine of ten would use the exact word sensible. It was the nearest word and depicted his most prominent qualities exactly. The sole outlier would like use a word like steadfast or prudent—or some other attribute that was contained within the summation of the notion of what sensible meant.

For this reason, his word regarding sensible men, such as himself, not wanting silly wives struck a deep cord.

It was a simple deduction. If sensible men did not want silly wives. And if he was sensible and she was silly, then he did not want her as his wife.

Misery.

She felt cold all over and it wasn't because she had walked in the spring rain to the trout pond towards Randalls. If felt an unnatural cold, like it was deep in her limbs and unlikely to shift anytime soon.

Infuriation—everything that had transpired caused her to feel angry. While her body felt like ice all over, her ears and cheeks felt hot –like the rage was bottled up from the moment he had walked out of the parlor.

She couldn't believe she had called him by his Christian name with no response. She felt wild and annoyed even thinking over that moment.

How dare he walk away? How dare he disrespect her so? To ignore her! To leave without a resolution! How dare he?

The rocks that hit the water while she considered how angry she felt didn't skip, not even once, instead they dropped angrily into the water making a hasty descent to the lake floor.

And he, she almost laughed to herself; he claimed to be the sensible one! And she, oh yes, naturally she was silly and childish! How very right! She shook her head in annoyance at it all.

She was going back to Donwell, she was going to have her maid draw her bath and then she was going to show him how very sensible she was.

It was very late when his frame began moving into the doorway of her room.

"I wasn't sure if you would be awake still. I was downstairs trying to piece together the correct course of action. Truth be told I wasn't sure I would be welcome and yet our routine is—well our routine and—"

"Mr. Knightley, it is your household and you may sleep wherever you wish. As you know—it is the pretense of a marriage after all and I will not be offended. "

His grimace was pronounced. A fleeting reaction to a sensation that he did not like; yet, he seemed to flick it off as one would a fly, offering "You might not be offended Emma but you will be cold." He said this as he pulled back the cover on his side of her bed, after a moments pause, "and you may call me George as you did earlier,"

She laughed out a terse sounding laugh that contained more of a sharp edge than she was intending to show. She had planned to be above it all, to ignore the pain and feelings that had been welling up inside her at the lake shore. It was not to be, gone was the false sweetness and practiced formal façade. "As silly as you may believe me to be, I am certainly not in the habit of repeating methods that have no effect. There wasn't the slightest flicker of recognition to the name George, I think I will stick by the proven method Mr. Knightley."

His deep sigh, followed by a tired sounding "Goodnight Emma," was all she heard as he took his portion of covers and rolled to his side, back facing her.

Feeling just a touch pleased with herself—if felt as if this was winning somehow—that his lack of response signified victory. "Goodnight Mr. Knightley."

She told herself that was why she couldn't sleep; that it hadn't a thing to do with her hurt feelings, the fact that she was reminiscing over their friendship in past, or that he was too far away and that they were too emotionally distant to allow her to tuck her cold feet against his leg as she had before.

She often woke before him but this morning he was awake and had left before she did.

Any other morning she may not have thought a thing about it.

Mrs. Hodges told her that he was away for the day on business.

Ah yes, business. Who was childish now? She thought to herself.

"Mrs. Hodges, I am redecorating this room. I am peeling the paper before breakfast and I need to see sample colours of the wallpapers offered in town by lunch, is that manageable,"

"Mrs. Knightley, surely you do not intend to peel the papers yourself. I can hire someone in the town to do that, I can have them started by the end of the week," she assured.

"Mrs. Hodges, I have been idle for too many days now, some small exertion will be good for me and I must confess, I do love to be involved in a project, as intimately as my skill set will allow. While I have no talent for applying the papers, an office at Hartfield attests to this. I have seen by experience that it is rather impossible to mess up the removal of the old paper," Emma insisted. "I will need a large pot that will allow me to heat water, sponges and a trowel should you have one available."

It was rounding on three o'clock went she changed out the water again for new, standing outside over the water pump in an old chemise nightgown, wearing her painting apron. Her hair was wrapped up as neatly as she could manage using a piece of old silk to keep her hair out of the way of her work. She wiped her forehead where beads of sweat had collected and then pressed her palm into the fabric of the indigo colour apron. She was grateful for the dark colour of the apron; it hid a multitude of old paint marks and stains.

Her hands she examined did not. As she pumped she considered the amount of colour that her hands had absorbed from the old paper. The grey damask print was saturated with ink and as she applied the heated water to soften the glue behind, the colour had also marked her skin. The lines in her hands grey, the ribbing around her fingernails almost a blue-black, the normal white of her nails, chipped from scraping at the wallpaper and etched almost midnight black as if she had been digging in the garden without her gloves. Oddly, her hands reminded her of Mrs. Knightley's figure from her dreams, but she dashed that thought away as quickly as it had been realized. She was not concerned. It would clean up in time, it wasn't as if she had anyone to see, and gloves were always worn to church.

The task had been considerably more than she had expected. She was grateful for it though, it prevented her from thinking. Well, now that wasn't expressly true. It may have only kept her hand busy as she thought. Or perhaps gave her something the scrape and claw at as she thought about how angry she felt and how unsatisfied she was by Mr. Knightley's conflict resolution strategies—or lack thereof.

Heavens, it was warm work as well, the heat of the room from the fire used to keep a constant supply of hot water, the spring sunshine through the large window, her body was also warm through motion and the use of hot warm to strip the paper. After some consideration she removed the apron; it was so hot and the chemise was stained with grey splash marks anyway. The relief she felt having put aside the apron encouraged her to hitch the skirt upward securing it at the knee. It wasn't as if anyone would see her, she had told the maids not to bother her and that she would come to the kitchen once she was hungry.

It must have been pressing past supper time when he found her. The sun was lower but she felt as hot as she had all afternoon, sweat on her brow, her body felt sticky and her back and shoulders tight from exertion.

"Mrs. Hodges tells me that you've eaten nothing all day, I can not—" he had begun as he entered the room but stopped up seeing her standing on a ladder reaching up for the top of one of the few remaining paper strips.

"Yes, well, it is merely how I am once I am set upon a project. To be honest, it has taken me significantly longer than I expected. The old paper was of such a quality that it was very difficult to encourage it to part from the wall. It also has a tendency to split in places rather than to pull away in a neat strip. I considered stopping to eat but I did not want to bathe in order to change into suitable dining clothes only to return to change back again into the dirty ones." Emma explained, busing her nails scratching.

"Step down Emma, you'll make yourself sick carrying on as you do," He said stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. She couldn't have known it but his thoughts were on how much skin she had exposed and the idea of anyone else seeing her like this.

"No, besides, I have been taking plenty of water," she motioned to a glass picture, condensation rolling down the sides of the glass. She could see that he was not convinced and continued, "I am nearly finished and please leave the door as it was, it draws some of the hot air out letting it escape into the rest of the house,"

"Emma," he began again sounding tired and yet she was certain, as he had started off with her name, that despite his better judgement, he wanted to make it an argument.

"No, I am almost done and I am not stopping until I am finished. I have been looking forward to nothing more than a cold bath since noon and I'm itching to finish this now,"

"Then allow me to help you," he offered while moving to stand next to the ladder.

"You'll get your hands dirty, and you don't need to have the necessity of wearing gloves in public at all time for the next few weeks," she said, using one of her hands to brush him aside.

His own caught her at the wrist, "Emma, your hands are blistered, get down," he insisted, giving her wrist a gentle pull in his direction.

"They aren't blistered, just a little swollen, the hot warm has a way of making them red and puffy," she said tugging her hand back. "These papers have required at least twice as much hot water applied as any papers I've ever removed and the room is at least twice as large, my hands will recover," she told him, satisfied as her hand fell away from his.

As if calculating the likelihood of her listening and looking for a different method of action, he asked, "If I brought food up, would you stop a while and eat something?"

"Only if you promise me to entertain each and every one of my silly ideas, and bring the paper swatches that Mrs. Hodges has collected for me up from the parlor,"

He nodded, either not catching or ignoring her choicely planted word.

She would show him silly-if only to prove true contrast to her regular behaviour and natural self.

Chewing her first bite of dinner she realized how hungry she was,

"When I am finished with the wallpaper and the overall décor of this room, I would like to look at the ballroom with you. I think your forbearers were too old fashion English for their own good. The ballroom area is entirely plain—undoubtedly they enjoyed their subdued English style but it is more than a little heartbreaking to think that meanwhile, France was the height of fashion with their ballrooms draped with gold and attractive colours—"She let out an exaggerated whimsical sigh and the continued in a more serious tone, "I am certain the ballroom needs attention before we throw a ball. In fact, I was thinking the first ball at Donwell in years could be in celebration of my birthday."

He sighed, "Emma, it is too soon,"

"I know July might sound short timing, and while I have not thrown a ball before I am certain I am capable to do it. I will dedicate as much time and attention as the task requires. In the few months that remain before my birthday, I am certain I can accomplish anything I set my mind too. I did promise to be the greatest mistress of Donwell, save your mother," she offered each notion so quickly that there was no space between any of the words to respond. "Great mistresses throw balls, Mr. Knightley, it is simply what they do."

"I did not mean to imply a doubt in your ability. I also plan to ensure that your birthday is well celebrated, but quietly. I had thought maybe a trip, somewhere away from Highbury. When I say it is too soon, I mean that it is too soon in distance from your father's passing."

Emma heard herself gasp; it took a few moments for her brain to confirm that indeed she had made the sound. She could only stare at him wide-eyed, unable to articulate any of the fleeting thoughts that jettisoned before she could fully capture them.

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks, she was silly. She was silly like he said, she had not thought about the length of time required before she could host a party and heaven forbid appear happy in public.

"Emma," He spoke, and his own voice was so soft when he spoke then it felt like butter against the burn she had gotten from a warming pan when she was little. "I do not mean to imply that you do not feel his loss keenly. I know that each person is apt to grieve the loss in their own way." His tone and words were gentle and soothing—immediately cooling the throbbing pain and almost promising that everything would be all right again soon. He continued, "However, throwing a lavish party would be the cause for talk and harsh ideas to spoken carelessly. You may work to make the space ready for your ball, I think if you wished to host a New Year's Ball the timing would be acceptable,"

She wasn't fully sure at what point she had started to cry, but it startled her at first and she moved quickly to brush the first few tears away. The motion was not particularly useful as her emotions seemed to rush her all at once as if the first teardrops had opened the floodgates. The pain felt multifaceted, everything all at once, the agony from the loss of her father mixed with feelings of foolishness for not thinking of the ramifications of hosting a party –she felt angry at herself. Perhaps most shaming was feeling once more that she had proved him right. She wasn't wise or calculating; she was impetuous and prone to speaking before thinking or acting without thinking too far ahead. She was silly and his words from before echoed again. He didn't want a silly wife.

She knew she was a sorry sight, hands stained grey, disheveled hair, looking unkept sitting in an old nightgown as hiccup like sobs wracked her tired frame. While she had felt on the verge of overheating earlier, she felt suddenly like ice water was coursing through her veins.

She wasn't shocked when his arms came around her to comfort her. He was the sort to be moved by compassion, she knew this—she had seen it from him before. And when he pulled her to him, she took shaky breaths against the fabric of his shirt, pretending not to recognize his scent and ignoring the familiarity of the action and taking the gesture as it was intended and for nothing more. It did not change the fact that she was not the wife he would have chosen.

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If you are still with this story please leave a review and this will encourage me. I have some time off of work and reviews will motivate me in how I spend it!


	9. Sway

**Chapter 9**

 _Sway_

Thank you so much for the kind words in the reviews of last chapter. As promised your reviews have encouraged a faster update. Here it is, enjoy!

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She was mortified to think she had not only cried, not just in front of him—no that would have been a kind luxury but into his shoulder and onto his shirt. It was worse than that, in fact, she had been crying so hard, and in conjunction with the exhaustion from the day, she had fallen asleep.

The room with the torn down wallpaper must have been, in Mr. Knightley's mind a least, unfit for sleeping—several servants had moved the bed away from the wall and nearer to the fireplace to allow Emma access to the wallpaper behind it but other than that Emma had no complaint about sleeping there.

Emma woke before him by several hours, her eyes stung a little from the outburst the evening prior and her face felt tight from the dried saltwater from her tears. She found that they were sleeping in a room she did not recognize; warm wood finishing a mixture of forest greens and earthy tones that seemed more welcoming than hostile or cold. Her face still near the covers she could smell him in the fabric, it was Mr. Knightley's room-for it could be no other place. She tried to reflect on the day of the tour of the estate, and could not remember being shown his room, perhaps he thought it too forward in light of what it might have implied given that it was their wedding day.

She felt perhaps he had not intended her to be here. It may have been a place of solace, a spot reserved for him – perhaps evens as a bastion or reprieve from her. She sucked in a breath against the sting of her thoughts; she wondered if there were very many other places he hadn't included in the tour.

She left the room and as she had done many times at Hartfield she slipped into the kitchen to quietly make herself a cup of tea. Breakfast was many hours off and she had no desire to wake any of the servants. Tea in hand and with a buttered tea biscuit she had pilfered from the pantry she returned to Mrs. Knightley's room.

She expected to see a last remaining strip of grey paper showing where she had left off the previous day but was shocked to see that the work had been completed. Half of her felt pleased, that was the part that felt the tension and stiffness of muscles in her arms and shoulder blades from reaching, pulling at the paper, pumping water and carrying the water buckets. The other half felt usurped, that after all that effort she had not fully completed the task herself. It wasn't worth becoming vexed over, she cautioned herself. Certainly, she was in a mood as of late to find fault with almost anything Mr. Knightley said or did and she knew she ought to pick her battles wisely. Hurt feelings or high emotions aside, he was still the man who had given up the prospect of a real marriage for a false one, simply to keep her in Highbury and that was a debt she could never repay him.

She set a fire and set a kettle to heat some water from the wash pan so that it wouldn't be overly cold against her skin. She felt grimy but didn't think it would be proper for her to draw her own bath, the thought of pumping and carrying all that water was the biggest deterrent. She would bathe as soon as a maid would be able to help her.

After washing her face, chest, and hands she moved the sip her tea, eat her biscuit and look over wallpaper patterns from the samples.

It was as her hand reached to turn the page that she noticed she was not wearing the old stained chemise but a new one and one that she was certain she had never seen before. It had light almost ethereal embroidery on the sleeve and Emma had always selected the simplest styles as she had never seen much point in anything different for sleeping.

She wasn't sure she wanted to ask Mr. Knightley where it had come from. Perhaps he had bought it for her—but that seemed odd to her. She hadn't examined the collection of things that Mr, Knightley would have added to her trousseau. She had seen the Knightley family jewelry and ended her search after admiring them and then placing everything in the care of her lady's maid. She left the thought there and turned her full attention back to the paper options.

She had narrowed down her picks to a shortlist of paper patterns when Mr. Knightley entered the room.

"Will you take breakfast with me Emma?" he asked, looking at her closely as if examining for any damage since the last time he had been with her.

"I am sorry if my tears startled you Mr. Knightley, but do not let me keep you from your business –I know you like to keep yourself busy and that you have much to do. It was a weak moment and I am fine, truly." she encouraged before continuing, "I certainly shouldn't need to be mollycoddled, at least not as a daily affair," She offered weak humour in an attempt to keep her feelings of embarrassment at bay.

"Emma, I am asking you to take breakfast with me because I wish to have breakfast with you. It isn't because I am alarmed or looking to coddle you," he assured her.

"I look affright, Mr. Knightley, that fact could not have escaped your notice" she told him. "and I haven't bathed yet, and so I must warn you that I am liable to smell something fierce in proximity–possibly like a herd of cattle—but if all that has not scared you off, would you be willing to have breakfast in here and help me decide on a pattern?"

He replied in jest and his eyes sparkled lively and attentive, "Perhaps not a hold heard Emma, but only several cattle,"

She tossed the wrung out washcloth that she had used in an attempt to clean her nails at him and it connected squarely with his shoulder and he laughed.

"What I meant to say was that I would be honoured, milady," he said stepping from the room with an exaggerated bow.

In other circumstances, Emma would have defended their complex relationship. She would be the first to mention that they had many happy moments in between the banter, squabbles, feelings of annoyance and outright arguing.

At the moment she was too invested in winning the argument at hand to reflect on the fact that there was far more to their relationship than verbal sparring and disagreement.

Currently, all she could wonder was if he could even hear himself; was he even aware of what he was saying?

"I am not going," she told him bluntly, waving the invitation to the Cole's party in an agitated fashion.

Why had they even extended the invitation?

Everyone knew it was the proper thing for him to reject it!

In real society, in London, the Coles wouldn't dream of inviting a Knightley or a Woodhouse to their party. It was absurd. Even her father, as good as he was, as kind a soul as he was, would have been quick to reject the invitation. It was the proper thing to do. They were in trade for heaven sakes, what was next, going to tea with the miners at Hudson forge? Ironically, she felt she could stomach that better, she had no issues with entering the homes of the poor for charity's sake, but it was a whole different matter for those that were clawing up the social ladder and expecting their copious wealth to buy them acceptance and even favour from the important people in society.

No, that she would not stand for.

"Emma, I have always attended the Cole's party, I have no intention of changing that."

"Changing nothing! I don't care a whit about what you do but I am not attending," she tossed back shaking her head, she had suspected he might have attended the parties they hosted in the past, but it was never confirmed and she had never asked him about it directly. It had been mere speculation, based solely on the fact that he had never spoken ill of the fact that the Coles always sent invitations to the Woodhouses and Knightleys.

"It is the first function for us as a married couple, I cannot attend alone because we have an image to uphold," he explained, rubbing his temples as if it pained him to explain the intricacies of the situation to a wayward child.

"Ah Yes! Bravo! He finally understands the premise of the thing!" Emma exclaimed full of fabricated excitement and steeped with heavy sarcasm, "We have an image to uphold, the very reason we should, based on every principal, reject their invitation!"

"I have always attended. And if you must know Emma, it has been incredibly profitable for me to work closely with and to maintain good relations with the Coles; it is good business sense. They are well connected, wealthy and have impeccable manners. You do them an injustice to ignore them and to consider them your inferior. And since I do count the family among my friends, I will not disrespect my friends by rejecting their invitation with no other grounds than pleasing my wife and feeding her vanity. I am steadfast on this point and I will not have the fact that I am married sway me on it. It is important to me and regardless of what you may believe it is not detrimental to our image in Highbury. Perhaps in London things might be different but many of your friends in Highbury regularly attend parties hosted," he spoke, she felt like laughing in the middle of his monolog but held her tongue in check until he was finished.

"You think I have the power to sway you? Balderdash! That is the silliest thing I've ever heard. No, you are not the sort to allow me any such power over you. In fact, I think you have always taken a good degree of pride in admonishing me at every turn, be I right or wrong. I think you get far more pleasure from saying 'No Emma,' than you would from any positive phrase in the English language," She began, flicking her eyes to his to witness his reaction. His entire face looking smoldering and angry—some part of her liked seeing the evidence that her words had struck, proven in the fact that she could stir a reaction from him. "You know that it is not right for you or me to accept an invitation from the Coles, and you want to make it seem correct by watering the thing down and making excuses for it. It is easier to paint me as vain than it is to admit that you are actually the one in error. And in this Mr. Knightley, you are in error. I know this isn't London and I have speculated for some time that many others might attend the Cole's parties—and yes they are wealthy, absolutely they would be lucrative business connections but all these things together do not make it right. I am not a follower, Mr. Knightley; I walk my own path, as lonely as it might be at times. I have not attended a party hosted by the Coles or anyone in trade for that matter and I have never entertained or sought entertainment from anyone below my station and lineage in my entire life. Carolyn Knightley would not have attended this party and Emma Knightley will not attend either. You will not make me," Owning her new name and ignoring the fact that it felt foreign on her lips and she darted her eyes back up to once more see what result it had on him.

His whole continence appeared fiery and most of all his eyes. Everything about his face was flamed with a well-bridled passion, and for the most part, it was a face that she was used to. They, although friends, feuded often and perhaps the only difference now was that the stakes were higher. In the past, they would merely agree to disagree and Mr. Knightley would make his choice and Emma hers in the opposite direction. Now it seemed that due to the fact that their names were linked forever, it was necessary that they think the identically on each subject and come to a strong agreement about what they should do in each circumstance.

It was enough to give her a headache.

"You make me sound like an ogre Emma," he tossed back, walking across the room at a clipped pace. He did pace, always in an argument—as if his head couldn't form thoughts or his mouth could not articulate them unless he was in motion. "Be at ease, ogre or not I am highly certain that you have never been made to do a thing you didn't wish to in your entire life! Were I you, I would not worry my pretty head that someone such as I would be able to offset the track record!" he retaliated with his own brand of sarcasm.

Emma fully ignored him, moving on to her next statement.

"In addition, you declined my request to host my own party and yes, in hindsight I do see that was sensible, I had foolishly overlooked the timing of things. However, I do not think it would be any better received should I attend this party," she maneuvered, changing tactics subtly with practiced finesse.

"I disagree entirely; the two are completely different things. This is to be a party with some dancing for entertainment. In contrast, you would have hosted the grandest party of the year. You have a new name to uphold and you have a vested interest in aggrandizing Donwell. You would have had no choice but to be extravagant for the reasons that follow: it would be the first party at Donwell in at least a decade; it would also be the first party you have hosted as mistress here and the first event as my wife. All things considered, you could not do something understated and to do anything extravagant would bring social judgement, disdain, and ridicule. The two are not the same and you are simply being ornery if you see fit to disagree," he stated.

"I am not being disagreeable out of sheer obstinacy!" Emma protested grating her hands through her hair in frustration. The endless cyclical verbal brawling, this man would be the death of her she swore it.

"I am not a disagreeable man by nature; ask anyone I conduct business with! I do not take pleasure in disagreeing with you but there are many occasions that we do not agree and we must work together to come to an agreement,"

"And let me guess, in your imaginings of this novel arrangement, will agreement always mean that I am the one changing my mind?" She bit out, asking her question with a harsh growl and feeling a sudden urge to stomp her feet in rebellion as well.

"On this point, I am asking you to change your mind," he told her, "In the future, and you know as well as I that there will be a plethora of other occasions, it will be you asking me to change mine," he explained. "Just as you changed my mind when you asked me to marry you—you convinced me, Emma,"

"Oh is that the toted example of a shining success? What is that, accommodation at its finest? I should think you would pick a better example, at least one with an outcome that you aren't repulsed by," she snapped.

"I am not repulsed by it! Do not twist this in a petty attempt to win an argument!" he challenged back motioning to the space between them as he spoke, she couldn't help but notice the brightness of his eyes and how adamant he appeared when he spoke of their arrangement.

He sighed, "Emma, I need you at my side. I am not above bribery—you may have a new dress made and I will borrow the Phaeton carriage again from my friends in London,"

"Mr. Knightley, exactly how silly do you think I am?" She began rhetorically, she was certain as he was looking directly at her that he would indeed see the venom in her expression. "You forget that the Cole's party is the one party that it would not be remiss to arrive on horseback! If you are set that I shall join you I will do so but then it is my expressed wish that we will ride on horseback. I have a dress that I will wear—I have no intention of being bribed or of throwing good money after bad in having a dress made especially for the occasion!"

"As you wish, Emma. But please understand that borrowing the Phaeton is not something I can arrange last minute. Be certain that this is what you wish, and I will take this as confirmation of our transportation plans for the evening and from this point forward you will not be able to change your mind about the Phaeton, though a standard carriage is always an option should it rain,"

"I am not fickle Mr. Knightley, I have never been quick to change my mind and I will see that we ride horses regardless of the weather, after all, it is only the Coles and I cannot imagine that they would expect better from most of their guests,"

"Emma," he hissed at her last comment. She should keep a record of the different tones he used when he said her name and the different meanings behind each specific intonation. This one she would obviously mark down under vexed.

"You should not be the one that is angry Mr. Knightley, you've won this battle," she informed him. "Do not disturb me, I need some time to myself," she called back over her shoulder exiting the room and planning to work in the garden. She felt so annoyed with him, she had half a mind to prune all the wrong branches on his trees. She wouldn't do it, but she might smile a little at the wicked thought of it and the imagining of his forlorn face looking outward at the garden.

Yes, she was a woman of simple pleasures it would seem.

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Sorry guys, the feud continues! Give me your thought, feeling, and options! I love hearing about what you liked, disliked-are they still in character? Is anything missing that you would like to see from them? Leave a review and I'll adore you and possibly write faster!

Anyways, the next chapter is in the works and it is brilliantly fun (in my opinion) and I can't wait to be able to share with you!


	10. A Proper Introduction

**Chapter 10**

A Proper Introduction

To the guest who called Emma tiresome in the review last chapter, I almost had to laugh when I read that! It was the very word I have written in her description of herself in this chapter. Uncanny coincidence!

I promise Emma will not let us down! She will struggle-headstrong and opinionated girl that she is!

Enjoy! Keep reviewing- it is my life blood!

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"You hate that dress," he informed her as he was putting on his riding gloves.

She smiled gleefully. "Yes, I have never liked it. I think it is the odious brown colour; it seems so wrong that any dress should be brown. I will give it credit on one point though, it is a respectable morning colour, even if it does nothing for my complexion! Oh, and how astute you are Mr. Knightley; I should wonder do all husbands know their wives so well?" She asked aiming for silly but it seemed to cut him a little deeper than she intended.

He seemed to ignore the barb and gave her a compliment in trade, "It does not harm your complexion, it is old but barely wore and I remember you said once that it was itchy or had you forgotten?"

"It is three—no four years old but only worn twice. If wives tales can be relied upon the third time might hold some sort of charm" she offered dryly, "but I doubt it, the corset sits lower at the chest and I feel it pushing everything upward. Itchy isn't the right word, more that it digs into me in certain areas where other dresses sit comfortably," she told him vaguely, and she did remember complaining to him about the dress once-she must have been all of seventeen and at that time she had been vaguer still as it would have been immodest to give him any more detail. Itchy may right have been the euphemism used to explain the feeling of her corset pressing too sharply against her chest and ribs.

"And I nothing that while you wear no jewelry, Mrs. Knightley, your eyes sparkle with mischief. I know your goal is to appear outdated and drab but the dress is attractive—against your best wishes. Obviously, the tailor intended that the dress would be more becoming than it is comfortable—it appears a good tradeoff to the outside observer, but then they aren't the ones being jabbed and gouged in the wrong places. " his voice walked a zigzagged path between serious and teasing. His eyes were honest though, at least she felt they were. From all appearances, he really did think the dress was beautiful.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley, you are too kind," she offered back biting her lip to avoid complimenting his appearance. Whatever his words about her looks tonight she didn't fully believe it herself, and his looks were such that they more than made up for everything she lacked. She could have praised him with lavish words and high esteem but could not bring herself to surrender to it.

She distracted herself fiddling with her riding gloves and carefully adjusting them again.

His tone was serious, "And you are comfortable side saddle? I have only ever seen you ride astride around the estate when there was no one around to impress,"

She blushed a little, it had been so long ago but her father hadn't minded a girl of fourteen riding around astride to test out the impeccable new horse that Mr. Knightley had purchased. Upon seeing how happy she was, Mr. Knightley had brought over to Hartfield an older gelding named Hampton that he assured was not needed at Donwell and was only ever ridden by grooms to keep him in good form. Hampton's saddle was astride and she spent many summer days riding around in a lighter sundress and adventuring with him. Riding anything but sidesaddle would have been said to be improper but Mr. Knightley was right, her father hadn't minded as long as it was in the quiet of their estate away from anyone of consequence. It was the summer she turned fifteen and at the end of summer, they returned Hampton to his home at Donwell Abbey.

"I am comfortable enough," she tossed back; had she really not ridden a horse in seven years? It was true, she had limited experience with side saddle due to her father preferring she take carriages.

She could still hear his lament clearly in her mind to this very day, "Horses are much too dangerous Emma," she remembered how distinctly disappointed she had felt. They would not see Hampton back the following summer and any adventures to be found were to be found on foot from then on.

Her father meant well, even in her disappointment she understood this. And she knew his new paranoia had nothing to do with the temperament of horses and everything to do with the fact that a young man in Highbury had died suddenly after being kicked by a horse. The young man was a groom working with a cantankerous stallion- a stallion whom Mr. Knightley had said had always been given a wide berth for the very purpose that he had been known to be unpredictable and easily spooked. The farm had only kept the stallion because he sired strong racehorses. Surely, Mr. Knightley had encouraged, most horses were not dangerous or ill-mannered.

Her father would not be convinced and thus ended her days of riding horses.

She sighed; it was unfortunate that she had not had more practice in recent years. But that as it was she hardly felt the saddle type would make any difference—she would be out of practice no matter what.

And she did remember somethings she realized as her horse set into motion behind Mr. Knightley's in a slow walk.

"I am out of practice," she told him as they walked, partly in a quest for conversation—she never could stand silence when with another person and partly in earnest so that he would not overestimate her riding abilities.

"Yes, I can see that," he replied, "which is why we will walk a few paces for you to get the feel of it, however, to reach the party on time we will have to increase the speed as your comfort level allows,"

"I am not opposed to being fashionably late," she told him and her horse seemed to have other ideas as he pressed forward into a light trot.

He sighed loudly.

"You think I am a tiresome creature, don't you?" She asked him, asking her horse to walk beside him so that she could see his face. "Pretty but tiresome?" she encouraged darting to meet his eyes.

"You are more than pretty Emma, and the problem is you know it; you are not tiresome but stubborn. I would condemn your constant desire to tangle swords with me but I can see how well it pleases you. It would grow tiresome if it did not delight you half as much to have a final word on a subject, or to feel pious as you sacrifice as a battlefield tactic but never truly surrender," he told her, moving his horse into a trot. She followed, or perhaps her horse did it of its own accord.

"Oh, how you flatter me Mr. Knightley!" she tossed back, half pleased and half annoyed by his assessment. Did he mean she was more than pretty—like a great beauty such as Helen of Troy? Or that she had other qualities and her looks were not much of consequence? She was not sure but she contemplated it the remained of the ride, which she would own was not so bad once they were in a canter.

She felt the perfect degree of undignified as she rode up to the Cole's estate and allowed the valet to help her dismount and take her horse to the stables.

The pleased feeling passed as they stepped up to the entrance, it was candlelit and grand looking. Waves of embarrassment flooded Emma and some part of her wished she had asked her maid to do her hair in some grand style—instead, she had asked her to recreate the bun she had worn for working in the garden that morning—it made up in practicality what it lost in elegance.

She frowned sharply, she should not be here. She could not shake the feeling—it was natural for her to feel out of place, she looked at her husband then, he too was also frowning but she would learn it was for an entirely different reason.

"Emma, I will not stand next to you if you are planning to cast misery across your face the entire evening. As we both know it is for my benefit and that you are still seeking to prove a point— I will not give you the satisfaction"

It was all she needed from him confirmation of how she annoyed him. She held his gaze offering a look that must have been some combination of hurt and resentment for what felt like an eternity. Tension and anxiety rising as they waited to be ushered in, neither party willing to break the stare or accept defeat in this area. It should not have surprised him that she flounced in as soon as the doors were opened. Emma felt wild and guarded and could hardly calm herself long enough to greet their hostess. A dull curtsy was all she could manage in Mrs. Coles' direction.

Oh how she fumed silently in the corner, and tight grip on her punch glass. She felt as sour as the punch tasted.

Who in their right mind would serve a sour punch?

It was far too tart; she wanted some sweetness and finally took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Her father was not in favour of drinking anything alcoholic, save for wine at Christmas or on special occasions. But then again he was not here to see her or to comment. She almost laughed; this laugh would have been tired and miserable—not humor at the very thought. She felt the notion course through her bitterly instead, her father should not have left her was all she could think as she took the first sip.

She started to feel more relaxed as she nearly finished the glass, her thoughts were still centered around her father, and what comments he might make about the unsuitability of the room—mainly a result of the air pulling through the house from open windows. She was interrupted from her thoughts, for better or for worse.

"I saw you arrive—an interesting choice for a party, are you fond of horses? No, you mustn't be you've worn a frown ever since! It is fascinating really, to be at a very elaborate party and to not crack a single smile—that is quite a skill and enviable really— for I have been smiling since you've arrived, try as I might I can't seem to wipe it off of my face." He told her and she took in who was talking to her with a look of shock and wide eyes. "I must say, that frowning, however, is hardly becoming of a wood elf or of any other elfin creature—but on my word, I will not repeat a word of it to the elf king as I travel through that forest—what he doesn't know cannot hurt him, right?"

"We meet again Sir," she said and smiled lightly at his antics.

"Yes, and at very last a smile. There! Nothing for anyone to report to the elf king now," he told her

"I must tell you, I spoke in error the last time we met in regards to my name, I am Emma Woodhouse—or I should say I have been her. But I had been just recently married the last time I saw you and I gave you the old name out of habit. I was too mortified to make a correction, I was very sure our paths would not cross again," Emma confided.

"I see, I was fairly certain that you arrived with your husband—thought it may have been a brother. I could not tell from the interaction but to say that you are cross with him, regardless of the relation," he offered with a smirk. And then he abruptly shook his head,"Forgive me, that was a spontaneous but foolish thing to say, I often speak without thinking deeply. What I should have said was what is your new name?"

"I understand, I am prone to the same condition—I will try not to be offended over your observation, as it is only the true and my emotions were on display for anyone to see. I am Emma Knightley, and I realize I do not know your name,"

"Frank Churchill at your service," he offered with an exaggerated bow.

"Thee Frank Churchill!" Emma exclaimed with a laughing tone without really thinking at all, except that this was the stepson of Mrs. Weston and the long-absent son of Mr. Weston. "Impossible! In the flesh?"

"I did not realize I would have such notoriety!"

"I believe I know your name better than I do my own!" she told him moving to happily explain the connection. "You see, as I also lost my mother at an early age, as a child I always felt some fellow feeling and connectedness between our situations. Only last summer I had the happy privilege of seeing my dearest friend married to your father Mr. Weston and was so disappointed that you were not at liberty to join us" Emma offered, noticing that he looked saddened at the mention of missing his own father's marriage she attempted to change the subject. "Yes, indeed it is a very small world!" She remarked happily, "and I am certain he was overjoyed to see you, he talks of little else!"

|Uh, it pains me to say this but I have not seen my father yet. I have attempted it several times, I have even come as far as to be mere meters from his home but every time I feel this fear rise up and I turn back. In fact, that day you saw me in the woods I was venturing into Highbury for just such a purpose and only to realize once more that could not," he told her, "I do not have many connections in Highbury and it would be so great a favour if you did not mention my attendance to your dear friend, my father's wife—I do mean to meet her. I think I give the wrong impression by avoiding the visit. I am excited about the prospect and I am so pleased that my father has found companionship once more. It is good for him, she is good for him. I mean really Emma, that she is your good friend would be evidence enough and he also speaks so highly of her in his letters," Frank explained.

"I understand Frank," she told him, she almost startled herself her familiarity, to call him by his name did not trouble her mind as it did for others. It signified that she had always thought about him as Frank in her head or spoke to others asking about him by his name as a child might.

'But where is Frank now papa? Why did Frank have to leave his papa? Will I have to leave you someday too?'

'Do you think little Frank much misses his Father. Miss Taylor?'

She completed her reflexive action with a gentle pat to his arm to reassure him. He may not have known her well but he had by happy accident bumped into the one person in Highbury that did not enjoy the act of passing on gossip. She didn't fully mind to hear it from others, Ms. Bates was always a steady almost never-ending source, but Emma was never the one to disseminate it herself. The stream flowed one way. "Be at ease, you have a confidant in me," she assured.

"Is that really true?" he asked looking her in the eyes.

"Absolutely! I, sir, am a steel trap," she explained with a laugh.

"If you call me Frank, may I call you Emma? Since you are my confidant it seems only fair,"

"I will permit it, for I have only ever called you Frank-as a small child addresses another and I feel it will be near impossible for me to call you anything else, solely out of habit,"

"I am a good judge of people Emma and I do believe you are going to make me an esteemed confidant," he stated. "If you would honour me with a dance, I believe I would like to discuss another matter which requires all secrecy,"

"Secrecy, well you have piqued my interest, Mr. Frank Churchill!" Emma smiled back eyes lite with delight at the prospect. "We will need a waltz then, it truly is the only dance invented to allow for sharing secrets,"

"Right, a waltz an excellent idea—I like the way your mind works. I will ask the host if he might request a waltz next,"

She nodded and finished her champagne. As much as she detested the idea of attending the Cole's party she was excited to meet Frank, to encounter the gentleman from the woods once more and to her delight that he was the long-awaited son of Mr. Weston. It all seemed so complete, so providential. Something about it indicated to her that for all her protests, she was meant to be here this evening, regardless of what social custom or decorum said.

It felt like mere moments before their waltz started.

"I trust you, it is perhaps foolishness but I do," he told her in the first few steps.

"Yes, you did own to being foolish before," she teased, and then moved her tone into the realm of sincerity, "Jesting aside, I am glad, I hope to prove as trustworthy with time as I do at first glance," she replied.

"I feel I should share with you the reason I am here. Unlike other occasions, today it is not my father than brings me to Highbury—though I was worried I might unsuspectingly meet him here of all places! How would that look?" he confided, his eyes seeking hers for reassurance. The waltz continued and Emma was glad she knew the steps so well so that she could ignore the fact that they were dancing and focus only on what he was sharing with her.

"Do not fret about that, Mr. Weston will not be at this party," she told him. Although stranger things have happened, she herself was standing before him and she wouldn't have predicted it in a million years.

"A connection I made is said to be staying in Highbury—I had rather hoped to see her here tonight, it was silly, a day's ride for the prospect of seeing her face from a distance. Can you imagine it?" He asked.

"From a distance? Why from a distance?" she asked keen to hear more and better understand his story.

"My aunt would never approve, it is critical that I remain in her good esteem—everything is at stake," he told her and they turned several rotations in comfortable silence.

"She is not a proper match, is that it?" Emma guessed.

"I should say! We are true opposites in every way. I didn't even care for her at first. She was so hesitant, so sedated, and so quiet –I thought it almost a skulking silence—it was unnerving. I was not looking to love her—" he broke off quickly.

She didn't know if she was supposed to probe him for more information. She was certainly enthralled, Who was this creature? What was her name? How did he fall in love with her?

"Do you love your husband?" he asked suddenly and she could not have been taken more off guard. She had never expected the conversation to become about her.

"Mr. Churchill!" she exclaimed in a hushed tone. How could he ask her such a question?

"Fine Emma, I can see in your eyes I have startled you. I was just poking fun, but truthfully there is only so much baring of my soul that I can handle before I need a reprieve. I thought you might prove an interesting topic of conversation,"

"All right," she said granting him clemency. She recognized that that dance had changed, a while ago she realized from where her feet were in the steps. It must have been amidst her mortification at his question.

"But really Emma, have you ever deigned to love anyone?"

She stared at him wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape. She felt perhaps she would leave; tear herself away before his questions became more probing. She could not do it mid-dance, that would be merely welcoming all sorts of foolish speculation.

"Well, I am human after all, not an elf creature as you first imagined, everyone knows that elves are heartless" she offered him a jesting tone instead to answer his seriously phrased question.

"Ah, well I will tell you what I see Emma. Beneath your happy charms I see a solidness, a rigidity about you, that dares a man to fall in love with you. Dares him because he knows he may be turned away but it is King George and the Dragon. An impossible feat Emma and you are looking for one who will challenge that," she was certain she must have been turning red the whole while he spoke. Who was he to say such a thing!

"Were you a fortune telling gypsy Mr. Churchill, I would ask for my farthing back!" She told him flatly.

He chuckled, a wry smile remaining on his lips as he began again, "I digress Emma. In my case it is a convenient thing that you are married, whether you love him or not, it is of little consequence to me. It is better in my interest that you are married. If you were unmarried it would be more problematic. Although you are not the type that I could ever see being in danger of becoming too attached to anything, as much as it pains my vanity, I include myself in that category," he reflected with a hint of humour. "But now I can be seen in your company and we can be friends, and most importantly, I do not have to worry about giving you the wrong impression,"

"Friends?" had he not insulted her moments before?

"I should like that and it would be very convenient as I may have told my aunt about a promising young lady that lives near Highbury. Aunts are nice like that; all they want is to be regaled with tales of agreeable prospects. They do not need proof, or to see the lady; somehow it is enough simply to hear the story about dancing three dances, and cutting oneself off at three though feeling as if you could have danced the whole evening, but doing the noble thing for proprieties sake. Yes, aunts want to hear that the lady smiled at the jokes and listened to stories, and then they are satisfied. "

"And you could not make up all these details?" Emma asked moving away from the dance floor as she caught his word about three dances—where had the time gone?

"I am awful at imagining, and there is something about a lie containing a grain of truth that allows for it to be more believable. I am by nature a horrible liar, perhaps the most difficult thing about the whole situation has been exactly that."

"All right, Mr. Frank Churchill, we shall be friends," Emma stated. "As friends, I should confess to you, I have spent seasons of my life as a matchmaker, bringing together love and what more could I do for you than I have done for every other friend! If it is of value to be seen at my side while you are biding time or to allow me to manipulate circumstances so that you might see your secret love without speculation, then I am more than happy to oblige you," she laughed then, "I cannot express in words how happy I feel at the prospect," she admitted to him. "I feel as if after a very long time I finally have something to look forward to—you have brought me the warm sunshine after a long, cold winter" she explained, "thank you for including me in this Frank, until we meet again," she curtsied.

As much as she might be tempted to spend the entire evening talking with him and goading him into telling all about his love, she knew it wouldn't be proper and that she needed to move about the room and if she could bring herself to do it, talk to other people.

She was delightedly humming into her new glass of champagne when Mr. Knightley arrived in front of her.

"Are you smiling because you are happy with your demonstration?"

"Perhaps I am smiling because the champagne is going to my head," she quipped.

"We are leaving," he told her bluntly, his hand moving to her forearm.

"I was not joking when I said the champagne was going to my head," she told him, feeling the applied pressure of his hand but making no motion to remove her arm from his grasp.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

"You could ask me to dance, that would be the obvious way to pass the time," she implored him, her eyes searching his in an effort to discern how mad he was with her.

"I'll not reward you for your poor behaviour, Emma," he told her dryly without one hint of humour.

"I see, your idea is that we will stand here silently, looking the very picture of uncomfortable for all who are unfortunate enough to glance in our direction, and you tease me about making a spectacle,"

"I was not teasing—I cannot fathom that you think I was joking with you. No Emma, it is a serious matter and one which we will discuss at a place and time when it may be done properly,"

"I see, and until then, you will say 'bad Emma, no you may not be made happy to dance with me'—yes I understand – I am being punished and you refuse to see that you are trying to act a father to me instead of a husband," she commented, her hurt sheltered under the casual tone and accusation.

"A husband has as much right to expect propriety from his wife as a father does his daughter," he told her, drawing his mouth close to her ear so that he could admonish her without others hearing.

"Oh yes, propriety, such as attending the party of a family who has made every farthing of their filthy lucre in trade, " she was not whispering as he had and if she had gone a single notch higher in volume, Mr. Knightley would likely have clasped his hand over her mouth to bring her to silence.

"That's enough Emma! We are leaving; you'll ride with me if you can't sit atop your own horse,"

"I will not! Call for a carriage," she demanded

"Don't be fickle darling! We are leaving right away and I will not flatter your vanity or reward you for your childish behaviour,"

* * *

Alright! I have a few questions that I need help with desperately. Please throw your answers in a review if you think you know the answer. I haven't read Emma in a few years (three?), and don't have the time to reread Emma, both my Emma movies (1996 & 2009) are lend out to others at this moment. I hate being inaccurate.

I need this info in coming chapters (at least 1, 2 & 3 -4 and 5 are my curiosity and the visual image from the films leaves a lasting impression)

1) Where is Frank Churchill from (like where does his aunt live?)

2) Are we told where Frank and Jane met the first time? If yes, where?

3) Are we told what attracted Frank to Jane-feel free to use inference from the movies or book or your own speculation here!

4) How is Jane's appearance described in the book?

5) While I tend to just imagine Romola Garai, is Emma given physical characteristics in the book - eye colour, hair?

Would you believe that next chapter is a break from the fighting? HOORAY!

Until then!

Cheers


	11. Deliberation

**Chapter 11**

Deliberation

Thank you to chuckscharles & Leafhuntress These fabulous people answered or provided pieces for my questions from the last chapter. Invaluable! I can't thank you guys enough!

* * *

If she felt she had been embarrassed before she realized she didn't know a thing about the subject of embarrassment. It was mortifying, Knightley sitting atop his horse and the valet giving her a boost so that she could sit with him.

Her face flamed in humiliation.

"Tell Richard I am sorry for leaving early but my wife has had too much to drink and I will send a groom to fetch Mrs. Knightley's horse in the morning,"

She was not so inebriated. Had she been a confident rider she was certain that champagne would not have been a concern at all. The two things together she felt it wise that she not ride. All she would have required was a little time to recover, perhaps something edible that didn't reek of the nouveau riche trying to impress all with creative appetizers from France.

Should anyone be surprised that she didn't want to eat chilled oysters or foie gras to help with the tipsy feeling? Her stomach almost turned at the thought of it.

They were half way home when she finally felt she had endured enough of it.

"I would like to walk," she told him.

"It is dark Emma, you are not in your full senses and regardless, we are too far for that but we will be home soon," he assured her.

"You like walking— love walking in fact, we could walk together," she insisted with a positive upturn to her voice. Some part of her was over taxed by sitting so near him. It must have had something to do with the way her back pressed into his chest as if the horse shifted the counter balance on a scale for so many long moments and Emma could feel within her that it was causing her much tension.

Her disgruntled humph was met out before the reply. "On many occasions you are correct, but it has been a long evening and my sole aim is to return home by the quickest route in the fastest style; we will not be walking this evening,"

A few paces up the road she interrupted the quiet with a shriller than needed, "You are hurting me! The corset is digging into my ribs every time you shift me forward,"

"I cannot direct the horse without using the reins, it requires a bit of motion on my part to guide him and as much as I would like to feel sorry for you Emma but cannot help but remember that you were aware that the dress was uncomfortable and decided to wear it anyways. But I will try to be mindful of it now,"

"As if you care," she pouted, it had been such an exhausting evening.

"I do care Emma, even if at times I wish it weren't true. Rest now, lean back into me and I will try to avoid jostling you as best I can," told her, using one of his hands to encourage her to lean back against his chest.

It was a few paces down the road when he added, more to himself than to her, "And it is late and there is no sense dealing with anything tonight,"

She did as he suggested, at first only intending to rest her eyes, and he couldn't quiet catch it but she was murmuring something about George and the dragon as she fell asleep.

* * *

Of how she knew the feeling so well! It was almost a burning sensation, or a sort of anxiety that prevented her from thinking of other things or seeking distraction for herself with plans or tasks.

She remembered it as a feeling often present in her childhood. And while anyone would own that Emma was a good child, often she believed they referred to her open temperament and happy disposition.

For it was a known fact that she was also rather mischievous in her early years—to others dismay, in many cases, her mischief added to her happy look and feeling of self-satisfaction. But as all mischievous children learn, there are times that one is required to apologize, to whomever they had wronged, injured or inconvenienced with their antics.

Though the source of the tension was not the same; she knew what she must do to absolve herself of the feeling.

She quickly finished her morning ablutions, dressed and then headed for the breakfast room, where she hoped to find Mr. Knightley.

Upon arriving in the room she did not move the far side of the table to sit at the head opposite him as was custom but instead pulled the chair directly at his right and sat down stealthily.

He was still in the middle of chewing, and looked as if he was hurrying his motions so that he might bid her good morning.

"Don't speak—you needn't say anything just yet, for I am here to apologize, and you know how nervous the notion makes me—I feel I must get it right and my words often aren't able to convey with the same exactness as the pit in my stomach. I almost wish that I could impart to you the feeling of the pit itself, then you would fully understand my feeling of remorsefulness without the need for so many words" she told him, offering up a lighthearted smirk that the final word.

Mr. Knightley almost mechanically placed two pieces of toast in front of her and moved the bowl of strawberry preserve closer to be within her reach.

"Right," she said fighting the desire to delay due to her nerves. She silently chided herself—she must do this quickly for she would not be able to eat anything until it was done and the strawberry preserve from Donwell's strawberry fields were her absolute favourite.

"I know you may feel the impetus to interject but I must ask you wait until I finish and I hope you do not feel usurped by my interference in your customary duty as my conscience and corrector" she began, sparing him a glance to see if her attempt at humour had any reaction. He seemed rather sullen this morning, and though she would not have said he wore a look of impatience, she would have reflected that his face looked rather flat, devoid of most expression altogether.

"Mr. Knightley—I must beg your forgiveness. Know that I am sorry, I never— I did not realize that champagne would have such an effect. I had not had it before and am not used to alcohol at all. In keeping with my father's thinking on the subject, I do not intent to drink at all again—well except maybe for Christmas and your birthday— and maybe my birthday and on truly spare special occasions. But I am resolute; I shall not partake in the fashion that others are accustomed to these days. I did not feel good about it last evening and I am sorry for how my lightheadedness reflected on you," she concluded.

He served himself another measure of fruit salad and bacon.

"Is that all you have to say?" tightness around his mouth and the curtness of his tone Emma could not help but notice.

She did not feel welcome to approach the source and with her conscience relieved, she took one of the toasts and measured out a full scoop of the jam.

"No, it isn't all!" She offered excitedly. "I had the most ridiculous encounter."

"Yes, that is saying something," he muttered dryly, either at a tone too low for her to hear or she ignored the comment as it did not suit her.

"You will never guess who I bumped into on happenstance!"

"The same gentleman you danced with thrice?" he tossed back, without malice but his words lacked all emotion and were empty sounding.

"Yes Mr. Knightley, the very same!" she returned, she words sounding chipped and excited.

"Emma, you really wish for me to guess at your gentleman company?" He asked, and this time his words were not devoid of all emotions—slight hints of anger were easily recognized. "The one you paraded around to make a spectacle? Do you realize how bad it looked to everyone?" he asked cutting his question off in a clipped tone. He was certain he would continue to ask question after question and he was certain he could hear his own jealously in the questions that were phrased already. He wasn't sure what following questions might draw out in him.

"Mr. Knightley, when you realize who it is, you will not be cross. Think of it. Who is it that I, my entire life, have had a deep desire to meet?" she said her eyes aflame and excited at the offer of the first clue. How was it that she could be so excited over another man? He shook his head to try and rid it of the jealous thoughts that clouded him. She continued the same boisterous tone and expressive mannerisms, "Think of it Mr. Knightley, who is it that I had thought perhaps our paths were intertwined?" She paused again, watching his face to see if he was rounding on the correct answer to her silly hints. He couldn't have been further from it; his mind was stuck on the word intertwined. She felt her life was intertwined with this gentleman. And what were her thought of her husband; with the vows of matrimony were they not considered intertwined –two wholes transformed to become one? Was that not the very picture of intertwined?

"Oh Mr. Knightley, I shall give you a final hint! Who is it that would be a young man about my age, who around the same time that I lost my dear mama had also lost his own mother?" he couldn't help but notice the pleading in her eyes, as if willing him to get it.

"You are meaning to say that that gentleman was Frank Churchill?" he asked, uncertain of how the information made him feel.

He was the gentleman who Emma had mentioned offhandedly after she had proposed the idea of marriage. How had Emma put it then? He remembered something about her mentioning him vaguely as the dashing step son of Mrs. Weston.

"The very same!" she echoed happily, " _thee_ Frank Churchill, who would have foreseen it?"

She paused suddenly as if shocked by something and then turned to him. "Now Mr. Knightley, I have just realized, I have put the thing out of order," she stopped for a moment, as if trying to right something in her head. "I should have asked—no demanded that you keep this matter to your person. For I do not believe very many other people at the party knew his name, or rather the profound connections of his name. It is important that his presence there is kept secret as he has not yet had the opportunity—nay that is not expressly true—he has many times made the journey to his father's house and one would say that he has had several opportunities to connect with his father but he is consistently turned back at the last minute by some strange fear—at least I think it is a reaction born of fear— but I did not tell him this! Yet, I think perhaps that he is fearful of being rejected by his father—to be turned away from ones father at such a young age—can you imagine it Mr. Knightley? How grievous, I cannot fathom it myself. Yes, it is such a grave thing and it was bound to leave some sort of impression! And we know of course that poor Mr. Weston could not have done any differently given the situation as it were but perhaps there is something –some deep pain that keeps him from seeing his father after all this time?! Perhaps there is something there that causes him to feel unwanted? Regardless, he has not told his father of his presence in Highbury and he does intend to see him. He has many times and on many occasions made the effort to venture this way on the intention of meeting his father again, and the new Mrs. Weston for the first time. However, he had been held back. Now, all that. What do you say of it Mr. Knightley?" she concluded before taking a bite of toast.

The preserves did not disappoint and she felt joy shiver through her veins at the taste.

Mr. Knightley was silent a long few moments but this Emma was used to, it was his way to think first and then to speak.

"To think, poor young Frank—I used to think of Frank all the time as a little girl—perhaps I thought him the only person who might have just cause to be sadder than I—losing both his mother and his father to the same calamity. I used to have a concocted image of him waving goodbye to his dear papa from a carriage window—it was awful and heartbreaking but somehow gave me comfort in my own pain—for I could run into the living room and press my papa's hand to my cheek—poor Frank could not. I might have taken some comfort to think my pain was not near as bad—poor Frank and to think that after all these years I have finally met him. It seems so odd, and yet so providential,"

"I think Emma that I understand it better." He told her, "However, there is another matter at hand, one which is regarding propriety. As a married woman Emma, you cannot behave as you did. It is not as simple as it were before—it is not that you cannot dance with who you wish but it must not be three times. You may fill your dance card and dance all evening but it will be talked of if you give any one person a singularity in your attention or a special treatment of any but me. "

"That is unfortunate, as you didn't dance with anyone. And Mr. Knightley we both are well aware that you do not enjoy dancing. You do not desire to dance with me either and although I do believe that if the entire world attended a ball I would be you first choice. As in times past, back when we were just friends—I know I would have been the one you would have danced with if you were pressed to it."

"Well it is true Emma, I am not fond of dancing and I know that you are, that it has always brought you great enjoyment. But how would – how would you feel," he paused a moment, his voice was stammering slightly and he had never known himself to hesitate or for his speech not to sound clear and polished. He cleared his throat and attempted it again, "how would you feel if there was a lady there—say a Jane Fairfax sort, and if I were to sit in the corner and read to her poetry and only to her—would you not think it unt—uh that is, would you not expect more from me as a husband?"

"What sort of poetry?" Emma asked actively considering his question.

"That is beside the point," he argued, his hand sweeping across his brow.

"Pray, what sort? I cannot accurately answer your theoretical without the details—as you know, the Scotch Reel is not a waltz—and The Tyger is not a Shakespearian sonnet –it does signify."

"Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge—a chapter of Milton—for it really does not matter, I only selected the example of reading because I would say that I enjoy reading. Alas, with the details included, in your estimation would it be proper?" he inquired.

"Yes, I think you are right it would be entirely improper. I think that a private reading in the setting of a ball is not quite right—balls are for conversation, community, gaiety and dancing—I think to read in any context of the setting, be it alone or with another person, strikes me as the very picture of improper," she told him.

"But would it not be improper for me, _as your husband_ , to be sitting off reading to _a young unmarried lady_?" he pressed.

"It is not the same, if you are pressing for me to make the comparison I could not, for it is not enough the same," she protested.

"It is the same," he countered gently.

"It is not, for it would not be polite for you to read to one and twenty ladies in succession! Even if you were giving your attention to no one in particular, as would be proper in a dance; yet, it would not be wholly proper when reading. This is true regardless to how you divided your attention as it is not the company that makes it impudent but the very act of reading and making the appearance of being disinterested in the festivities. It is an insult, in that setting, to the host and hostess," Emma explained firmly.

"Alright, I concede Emma, they are not _exactly_ the same. But if you could ignore the general impropriety of reading amid the ball setting, would there be anything within you, any part of you as my wife that would question the matter—that would demand better from me?"

"Mr. Knightley I know what you are trying to suggest. But I must prevent you from arriving a false conclusions, before you get ahead of yourself, Frank and I have decided to be friends," she proffered plainly—hoping to ease his mind and divest him of any concerns he may have.

"Friends?" He echoed an octave higher than his usually tone, the inflection indicating that the very idea was indeed ludicrous to him.

"Yes, you see, I cannot help but notice that he and I are most alike, a bit overzealous and at times unthinking—but a happy sort of breed, with an openness in temperament. " she told him thinking of her new friend and not especially aware of the expression worn by her oldest one.

"And to know him so acutely having only just met him?" he challenged.

"Oh Mr. Knightley, that is just it—we are similar in that regard as well. I think that Frank and I, in our own ways, are the sort that has never met a stranger, open and friendly –easy to get to know and befriend. I feel I have known him far longer than I have in actuality. And I do think we will compliment nicely, for example while he has gifting for timing and an effortless knack for comedy—I do not, but I make up for it with an easy willingness for laughter, which anyone would say is an important asset in someone else proving comedic. Each of us is, if not always the most practical or level headed, a fine sort of friend for the other" she offered.

"Emma, as you describe it, with vocabulary like overzealous, unthinking, not levelheaded—it sounds more and more to me like a remarkably bad combination than it does a winning one," he admitted, feeling annoyed at her mention of the similarities and alikeness between herself and another gentleman.

"You are only saying it because you have not met him and because you are _the other sort_ of person," she announced, as if he ought to know what was meant by the phrase other sort of person.

"The other sort of person?" he echoed, flat sounding – he was not an ignorant man; he felt he should not feel guilty for needing clarification, but a piece of him did.

"Oh yes, you are certainly the other sort. While you are lovely and friendly to those you know well, you cannot be said to be easy to get to know or overly friendly with strangers. No, I dare say it is not in your make up Mr. Knightley, that you should make friends readily. However, do not be concerned! For I assure you, the friends you do make overtime are just as loyal and lasting. But for myself I have never seen a problem with easily befriending others—there is no danger in it; Frank is a fine sort of fellow and I think, given the opportunity and the time required by your personality, you would grow to like him infinitesimally better than I do, once you've gotten to know him of course," Emma explained carefully.

Realizing that she still held his attention she continued, "Now there is a matter which I may not go into the details of—for I have promised confidentiality and I do not have all the details myself at this point. I may only say that it is well within my skill set to help him and that I feel I have been created for the very purpose of aiding others with problems such as this one. I am passionate about the topic and I look forward to having something to occupy my thoughts—my thinking has been grey, tepid and boredom has not been a positive influence. But this venture is something I can take on as a project and I might be so bold as to claim to be an expert in this area specifically. I am not sure any of this is explaining anything for you—I am sorry, as I do not rightly know how to explain it in such vague detail. Well—to put it simply, I do feel that it is my place and within my abilities to help him and in fact I have given him my word as such, that I will endeavour to do all that I am able to do in order to help him in this matter as his confidant,"

"His confidant!" he fumed knowing full well that the ire and jealously was evident in his tone, he didn't appear to care or try to repress it.

"Mr. Knightley you do not understand it is a matter far beyond—" she began but was cut off prematurely.

"Are you saying you understand his business Emma?" and he may as well have called her Judas or Brutes from the tone that he used in his articulation of her name.

"Well, yes. In a way yes, I do understand about his business –well more than you do at least. I have glimpses if not the full picture of what he is intending for his life and may I promise you, I am certainly not more than a friend, "

"Are you serious Emma? You're joking? That man may well be in love with you and I guarantee you would not see it,"

"He is not and I guarantee it— and he does not see me in that way and in due time he will be married and not to me—because I am already married and if you must know, though I do not know with whom, I do know that his feelings are placed elsewhere! He has asked for my help Mr. Knightley and I will give him my help,"

"And you do not care how it would look—how it does look?" he modified.

"Mr. Knightley, I do not believe it is the cause of speculation that you imaging it to be. I am your friend, your dearest friend. They would not twist something as trivial as this, no one would ever suspect that—" she urged.

"They _do_ Emma, they talk," he protested again with feelings of ire rising up and marring his features and voice. "They talk about it—a source of gossip," he trailed off gradually letting the ire leave him—replace with a more melancholic sound.

"Mr. Knightley, I respectfully hear what you are saying. I am telling you that you are mistaken and it would not do for you to be upset by this,"

"Do you care for him Emma?" he asked, his tone sounding hollow even to his own ears.

She was not sure how to answer it properly. In truth she hardly knew him—although she had empathized with him over his familial losses her entire life—did that constitute care? And now, she had grown to sympathize with his current plight. This problem sparked her curiosity and innate desire for problem solving and with it brought a craving to use application to make his problem yield and vanish.

She was stumped by his question. Whether it was the gentleman or merely his problem she cared about she could not rightly say—for she did not know where one ended and the other began.

"I will take your silence as confirmation, but I will leave you with the question of how you care for me,"

He left the room in gentle strides, the speed was such that she was certain she could call him back at any point and yet she was not sure she could bear it. His question had felt as if it had clawed gouge marks across her heart and lungs—breathing _hurt_ , simply _being_ hurt.

How could he not know how much she cared for him? He was everything to her now; all that existed for her. That he would belittle that, that he could dismiss it so readily simply to prove a point – she felt pain flooding through her and couldn't summon the words to call him back.

* * *

Hey guys, reviews have been steadily declining. Most chapter have had between 10-15 or even twenty reviews and the last chapter has 3! Those three are keeping me from throwing in the towel on this story. I know it is summer but if you read the chapter can you put in a review? Loving it, or hating it I don't mind but I do need to see that people care about the story and how things are resonating with readers. I had hoped I would hit 100 by this point, it was consistently heading in that direct but with chapter 9 & 10 things have suddenly stopped being predictable.

Few reviews or a sudden drop off, I start to think people aren't very interested in the story-I start getting in my own head about it.

I need to see that people are actually interested this chapter. It will be a deciding factor on whether it continues.

Thanks.


	12. The Meaning of the Word

**Chapter 12**

The Meaning of the Word

Thank you Crisol! My very first review in a language other than English! It was so exciting to google translates it! Thank you so much for giving feedback!

Oh my goodness, the most flattering review I have ever received goes to 1154943. Wow! Thank you so much, I am so honoured by your kind words!

Thank you everyone who reviewed, your words were so motivational in the writing of this chapter. Thank you.

* * *

She had sought him out that same day; after their argument, no it was not an argument, at least not on her part for she was not angry. It was perhaps better called a discussion, but she knew that he had been angry about it and therefore felt that word imperfect as well.

She had not expected him to remain cross about it, but is seemed that he had. This was evident when he did not take afternoon tea with her. She set out to find him and realized that he had set himself up in his study, she had not entered that room save from their tour.

The study felt set apart somehow, as if the space was his and should remain that way. She considered the options from the bannister rail. She could see his face well from the vantage point. He was reading but not for leisure she was certain, his brows set slightly too intensely for an enjoyable afternoon read.

She debated the options –to disturb him in his work and in a space of solace from her? Or should she let the moment pass and speak gently with him at supper?

Perhaps it would be better leaving him more time to relax, she had not interrupted him yet, she could still decide to pass him by. She considered it for that moment. There was something she could own—it nothing else she could have been more discreet in her conduct, she would own that. It seem best to do it right away, as she knew with all things easily avoided it was best to take them on straight away as soon as the one had the emption.

"I waivered over whether or not to interrupt you," she confided, making small steps to approach him and he looked up from his papers then.

"Yes?" he asked, she heard a softness in his voice and hoped it meant that he was not so terribly angry with her.

"I wanted to apologize for arguing with you earlier, upon reflection I can own that I should have been more discreet and I will aim to be more discreet in the future," she vowed.

"Discreet?" He asked, the soft tone gone and replaced by a more etched gravelly quality. "Please understand that that is not the heart of the matter Emma. However, I do not have the luxury of time, the willpower or the energy to go into it further at this time. I will see you at dinner," he concluded, looking back to his papers.

Had she really been dismissed? She stood looking at him for a short time before turning and leaving his study in the same gentle way he had earlier—though she was curtain that he would not have had tears pressing at his lashes that were trying to escape.

She knew there was something biblical about the wounds inflicted by a friend but she could not bring the verse to mind. She took deep breathe all the way back to rear door and then made her way into the garden, nothing lifted her spirits better than time spent out of doors.

* * *

She took the chair opposite to the one she had selected at breakfast, nearest to him but at his left instead. As she thought it might be productive to allow the setting to feel different, as breakfast had not gone as she had hoped-she did not wish to encourage its repetition. The promptness of his staff was evident in their seeming effortless efficiency. Supper was only just served as she opened her mouth to speak to him further. "I have been hoping to speak to you more about our discussions earlier,"

"I have had an exhausting afternoon Emma, I think I would appreciate if we say no more about it," he told her—not sharply, she felt she could have risen to the occasion and argued with him had his tone been sharp or tenacious. Instead it was the tired, the subdued flatness of it that caused her willing agreement.

"Very well, may I talk to you of other things or would the tranquility of silence be better suited?"

"Considering the events of the day I feel tranquility would please me," he answered, and then true to his word said no more about anything.

It had not have been fully understood by Emma how much she needed talking or even appreciated the artful expression and peace within the buzzing of a room.

It was one thing to sit in quiet tranquility beside a bubbling stream or a humming meadow but at the table it was wrenched. Every touch and scrape of silverware against the plate seemed jarringly and worse yet the very sound of her own chewing burning in her own ears—it was torturous. Could he hear her chewing? Was it really so loud or only so evident to her own ears?

But he said it would please him.

Oh she withheld the question as long as she could bear and then when she could take no longer it was out and broke the silence quickly

"Would you please pass the salt?" she caved asking as demurely as she could.

He complied, she smiled, perhaps more to herself as he did not seem to be looking at her fully, and she would know because her eyes –having little else to do to occupy her attention had been relatively fixed on his person and particularly focused on his visage.

"I dare say that this pork is the most ten—der—"she began but the words died slowly on her lips as she saw the look he gave her. She would have to save her compliments for another day.

"Right, tranquility—I nearly forgot," she excused with a forced smiled—the kind that always seemed painful to hold in place for longer than the briefest moment.

Oh how she disliked having him at odds with her. It was nearly a hellish meal— her personal hell that is and unfortunately another that she was set on not repeating.

It would pass she promised herself. It must for they could not remain this way, it was inhumane and not in their nature to remain so divided.

* * *

She did not want to leave things as they were. _Let not the sun go down upon your wrath_. That was biblical as well! And biblical wisdom declared that they ought address it and sleep peaceably. She was impressed that despite it all, he still took his place at his side of her bed.

They had moved back to her room as soon as the wallpaper work was finished. It was pretty, Mr. Knightley had suggested the flower and birds print and she enjoyed the warmness it added to the room.

In hopes of a conversation topic she put on the new chemise. She would do everything she felt reasonable to win him over and return to his good graces.

She spent long minutes busying her fingers playing with the lace on the sleeve, gathering her words and determining exactly how to phrase it. She finally bit her lip sternly, and then let it free just as she began to ask her question, "George, do you know where this nightdress came from?" she was pleased at how natural she sounded to her own ears.

She was privileged with his attention for all of seconds while he appraised the item of which she was speaking.

"Isabella picked it out," he told her turning his attention back to his reading.

"Isabella," she whispered back with shock and disbelief.

"Your sister, yes," he added.

"Was it a gift? I was wondering at having not seen it before—not until the night—not until I fell asleep after sobbing upon you," she admitted at blush following swiftly behind her words.

"She picked it out to be part of your trousseau, in that case yes, I suppose it was a gift from me," he replied in a very fact driven sort of answer. Emma would have used descriptors such as disinterested, perfunctory and jaded to expand on his tone and countenance.

She willed herself to do it, she told herself it would make him happier, she'd give her life's blood for his happiness, why could she not use words? "Thank you George, it is very pretty," she said softly, genuine but unable to meet his face she was not sure if he noticed or cared.

He made no audible answer and although he may have nodded agreeance, she hadn't the courage to look.

"Sleep well," she bid him, turning to tuck her arms and shoulder beneath the blankets and settling gently beside him with her back to him.

* * *

How could one afternoon spent with three other individuals be so horrendously boring? Emma asked herself, walking up the steps into the main entrance of Donwell.

It was exhausting.

She wished she had someone to lament it to in dramatic fashion. Her father had often listened dutifully while she expounded on such a topic—sighing, shaking his head or suppling a "How right you are Emma," in the right places. Even though things were more even keel between them since what she now thought of as ' _the dinner of odious silence_ ', Mr. Knightley for all his goodness, had never been that sort of friend.

She could well imagine his verbal chastisement without having to scarcely think at all.

He liked Jane Fairfax, he always said she was a sweet tempered young lady who deserved compassion. No, he would not stand for a word spoken against her or the Bates'—true or not.

It seemed odd to her that she be censored from sharing her thoughts in this area. After all, to be boring was not necessarily a bad thing; it was merely fact and subject to individual tastes and fancies. While some might be wildly entertained by Ms. Bates' suffuse retelling of a book Jane had once read (about the history of Ireland) and communicated the details of said book in a letter she once wrote to her Aunt from Ireland, Emma was not.

" _Such a coincidence, to be in Ireland, reading a book about the histories of Ireland and relaying the details to her family in Highbury, who for our part have always been intrigued about Ireland, but have never been," Ms. Bates had reflected_

And poor Jane, Emma felt mortified for the poor soul to be sitting there nodding agreeably. Jane for her part was encouraging, even so far as to include the odd, "Yes, I did say that," and "You have remembered every word exactly!"

It was too much, in fact she was glad for the walk as it allowed her to feel the pent up tension and energy to leave her extremities.

The butler was quick to let her know that a letter had arrived for her.

For me? Who might it be— it dawned on her, alas Isabella surly. If Isabella was writing of anything other than begging forgiveness for her ill-treatment she would be in some mood—Emma thought to herself.

She made quick steps toward the butler to receive the post from his care.

It was not from Isabella but instead a Frank Churchill direct from Enscombe, Yorkshire.

She turned to post over in her hand, as if viewing the transcription again would change it somehow.

Indeed, she held a letter from Frank Churchill.

With an afternoon of sheer monotony she had never felt more tempted to read anything in her life. Ohh! It pained her but she knew she ought wait; she needed to show the letter and perhaps even read it alongside her husband, simply to put his mind at ease, so that he would not think it meant anything more than it was; a letter from a new friend.

It felt ages from his return from his business—the face time he put in with his tenants though touching in the sentimentality of the action was not truly required. He would say it was all part of managing a grand estate but Emma knew he employed his bailiff Mr. Larkins for just such a purpose.

Under normal circumstances she was pleased at how actively he was involved in the running of his estate, he had from her earliest memories invested time, energy and passion into his role—it became him really, master of Donwell Abbey—it was a duty, which in the aspects and tenacity that he took it on she did not believe John Knightley could have ever made it what it was.

Though he had lost his father earlier than most, George Knightley had run the estate he had inherited with more skill, foresight and drive than any of his forbearers, or at least the ones that she had ever heard spoken of. It was an uncommon thing for a young man to surpass his own father in skill and ability—she had heard once that Donwell had steadily increased in its profitability since it was inherited.

She was pleased when he did return and knew she would find him in his study; she brought tea service with her and a few light pastries to accompany.

Pouring his tea as he liked, she had known his preferences since she was old enough to hold tea parties with imaginary tea. Although it was not until she had grown old enough to pour the actual tea that she had learned what he made up for in goodness, he lacked in imagination, for he took his actual tea in the same fashion as the imaginary.

"Would you like a scone or pasty?" she asked, moving to sit in the chair nearest him.

He did not, she took one and held her own tea, thinking of how best to start the conversation.

It did not seem useful to delay it with chatter.

"I have a letter here from Frank Churchill and I have not looked at it yet; but I know that it contains nothing untoward—but would you like to read it first?" she asked producing the letter from her skirt pocket and holding it outward towards him.

A look she could best perceive as annoyance crossed his features, "Emma, I am not your father to censor you. I am not—I am not going to—or rather I should say I have given you my thoughts and my full opinion. I will not protect you farther Emma. Right now you are your only rival—you cannot be hidden from yourself, I cannot shelter you from yourself—from your ways, from your stubbornness. It is who you are Emma. I cannot change you; I do not wish to change you—but should you see a reason to act differently you will take it upon yourself to do it for I have known you all your life and that is also who you are. And it is not that I do not trust you Emma. It is simply that at my age there is a wisdom that goes beyond your experience. I have no wish to read the letter for it was not addressed to me and if there is a matter that pertains secrecy, then you shall have your secrets," he concluded.

"And you will be cross with me," Emma retorted, with a knowing look.

"Emma, I am tired—for I do not know what else to say to you but that I do not wish to read the letter,"

"May I read it to you?" she asked, looking for an alternative solution.

"No Emma, for I have no wish to _hear_ it," he answered, placing his tea on his saucer and moving his hand to rub at his temples.

"Then do you wish me not to read it?"

He made no answer, and she was not sure if he was thinking or simply opting for silence.

"What would you have me do? Burn it?" she asked with a tone that was more reproachful. "Burn it without looking at it?" she pressed.

"Emma, I do not have a solution that you wish to hear," he replied finally.

"Then would it be fine with you if I were to sit here in your study near you to read the letter? And perhaps bring it to you should there be anything that were suspect or untoward?"

"Emma." His intonation was enough that she understood what it meant. It was the same warning as given by a growling dog.

"Well, I will be sitting just across reading by your fire and if you change your mind, or if you decide you would like to read it after me…" she offered trailing off.

"Enough Emma," he snapped with more finality than she was expecting.

"Ugh, but I have such a curiosity for the letter's contents but I also feel your judgement—which I hate feeling and I cannot reconcile it. For I believe it would be near impossible for me not to read this," she said waiving the letter with exaggerated motions. "It has been burning a hole in my pocket all morning, and my curiosity had only been abated by sheer willpower and for the fact that I wanted your approval. But it seems silly to me now—I feel just now that even mentioning it to you has made it look something it is not. For it is only Frank Churchill, were are friends and I simply wish to help him with his problem,"

She paused a long moment and could not read his expression full, but to say some part of it she recognized from their fight about Mr. Martin and Harriet Smith.

Perhaps it was disappointment.

"Don't be harsh with me," she begged him "I could not bear it, for you are my greatest friend,"

His sigh was heavy, "Emma, at times I wonder at what friendship means to you,"

"I think it must mean that I would do anything for you. Truly."

"That you would be unselfish for me Emma?" he inquired. "Is that what you are saying?" and at that he had taken on an uncharacteristic smirk and almost a scoffing tone, as if he did not believe it.

"If it were truly what you wanted, I would do it, I would burn the letter,"

She paused a long moment. Every part of her hating the look on his face—he had never looked at her like he did not believe her before.

"Pray, ask it of me if you do not believe me!" she demanded sharply, holding the letter out to him again.

"It is an unfortunate place we find ourselves Emma, for friendship means something similar to me. It means that I would sacrifice my happiness, my own well-being, my own everything for you. And I would be unselfish for you Emma, and I will not ask you to burn it. Although, perhaps it is not true altruism for I know that to ask you to burn it would build resentment within you. You would grow to believe I did not believe you and overtime perhaps to dislike me for my overbearing ways. You would begin to tell yourself that I was meddlesome and that I did not trust you. You would grow to think that I was heavy handed, domineering and the very picture of controlling. No! I will not ask you to burn it, for I suffer the same affliction of friendship—that it would bring me everything to see you happy, and I know for some odd reason, although I cannot explain it, he has made you happy. He brings you a happiness that I have not been able to in several months,"

"But I am not unhappy with you," she protested, there was a softness about her eyes and mouth and he felt as if it were perhaps pity or some other compulsory emotion.

"Go read the letter Emma," it was softly spoken but she felt it unwise to challenge the directive.

* * *

It seemed reading material was common place in their bed now; and as her husband read Emma was certain she did not wish to interrupt him. She did however wish to speak to him once he was no longer preoccupied.

So she determined she would wait for him to close the book.

Feeling it would not do to be unoccupied—oh as if her patience would allow it! She left the bed briefly and found a handkerchief and an embroidery hoop, she worked mostly quietly but on occasion caught herself mid hum and slowly petered out the song.

While Miss Taylor had always said she had a natural talent for embroidery, Emma felt she had to concentrate heavily to prevent simple errors. She was very out of practice, and her stitch work confirmed this. The loop in Mr. Knightley's first initial curved awfully sharply; she almost began to undo the stitching when she heard the sound of her husband turning over.

How had she missed it? When had the booked closed? Was he silent as the grave, or was it that she was so focused?

Oh, well it was not impossible to talk with him as she lay beside him, but his back was to her.

She placed the hoop on the bedside table feeling a tad perturbed with her own unawareness. It was important; she felt she would not sleep well without having spoken her mind to him.

He was not so very far away. She though from where she was laying on her side of their bed.

"We have had our arguments, I know it," she said, "and I am sorry for bringing you frustration, for making you cross with me," this she spoke to the ceiling above her.

She twisted then, turning over to face his back. It was not enough she felt, to apologize into thin air.

It would not be too difficult to slide nearer to him so that she could speak to him.

If he had been on his back, facing the ceiling, it wouldn't have to be so odd; for that was not all that dissimilar to how she had walked with him in the gardens of Hartfield –arm in arm or brushing shoulders while laughing at something clever one or the other had said. The memory seem so long ago now, as if their tumultuous feuding of late had made it seem distant past rather too quickly.

Could she hug him to her? She was affectionate by nature and to be reserved, especially in her youth, was often a battle of her will tampering down her natural feelings. How many times had she thrown her arms around her father as he sat in his arm chair? She would hug him to her and give him a kiss on his cheek before carrying on excitedly about the news of the day.

It was love that allowed her to hug her father, why should it be any different with her husband?

She trusted him, if she did mess it up and if he did not want her near him and did not like her words, then she trusted at very least that it would remain between them. Any embarrassment would remain theirs alone.

"I relished in your smiles, I do wish to see you happy as well," she told him scooting herself closer to him then. For he had not moved, had said nothing and she could decipher none of what he was thinking. She reached out to him and he did stiffen at the touch of her hand to his shoulder blade, "You are my dearest friend, and we may bicker, we may fight but I do love you,"

She pulled herself to him then, bringing her own cheek to rest against the space between his neck and ear. She could feel it as he took in breath, her hand moving to press the muscle at where his shoulder met his bicep. "There is none that I love better than you," she assured him and then she was hugging him to her, feeling that maybe she could impart to him in action where words seemed to constantly fail.

"I cannot express in words how grateful I am. That you would take me –provide me a solution that would please me, when no one else would. That when I was out of other options, you would take my happiness before your own." She sighed this out against his back.

"I know it is a debt I can never repay, and I hate being indebted to you!" she added, feeling the tension of it and relaxing her grip of her hug slightly.

"I feel like I owe you something and have no means to repay it," she urged, feeling the honest words trickling out without real thought of what she was saying.

"You owe me nothing Emma," was the first words he spoke out, with them it almost seemed his body relaxed as she felt his back press into her relaxed hold.

"But I cannot shake the feeling," she explained "and I have this strange worry that in time—well —or that perhaps you did not fully realize how vexing I can be. To be so near me at all times—you will have noticed that I am not a perfect creature; I am not the charming angel that could do no wrong. I will have noticed that I am wrong and wrong often. And I think for your part you knew that –or at least partially. But perhaps you hoped that I would grow out of it, that in a few months or a year, or two that I would be better in time. That I would not be so _silly_ , but I am silly—you know it. And you have said yourself that men of sense do not want silly wives. Which is exactly what you are, I could not express your personality with any other characteristic than the word sensible. And if men of sense do not want silly wives, then _you do not want me_ ," she told him. "You must see that. And I am fearful over what I feel when I think about that. To have a husband feel that way—not just any husband—for I think we are closest to a love match than I had originally thought. For I love you like my own hand, like my own arm, like my own skin—like my dear papa—I love you. And yet, to think that you do not want me is heartbreaking in its own way. I don't know how to express it—but it is heartbreaking because while I am still able to hold it at a distance from me, to tell myself that you have helped me out of the kindness of your heart, in contrast it also upsets me knowing that while you have done me the greatest kindness, you are unhappy in it—unhappy to be married to me. And the worst part is that I know you are trapped—unable to make any changes to the situation. I feel sick at that and I am sorry if I have been acting out towards you. I am sorry, I am mainly angry at myself for not being more unselfish towards you, but I think perhaps some part of me wants to give you an excuse—to give you a reason. Nothing has been done between us that would prevent a dissolution—and I cannot help but feel that maybe it is what you would wish."

"Emma, I am not sure what brought you to think this way but I would never consider an annulment, and it grieves me to think that you could fathom I would do that to you," he responded.

"Not _to_ me," she insisted.

"Emma, you would be more rejected than a widow or even a single sinister who deigned to live alone ever could be—it is as if you forget exactly what I desired to prevent you from,"

"But that is just it, but I now consider everything you traded from my happiness and that perhaps it was in direct contrast to your own. And more than anything I desire you to be happy and what might be the consequences of me ruining your previously happy situation? What if in time you grown to hate me for it?" she asked urgently.

"Shh, I could never hate you," he responded, patting her hand where it was at his breastbone. It was almost matronly in its style, for Emma recalled her mother's mother visiting Hartfield when Emma was around six. The woman was a grand lady, married to a duke and then widowed long before Isabella was born. It was not on many occasions that marrying into the Woodhouse family could have been considered marrying down, but it had its rare exceptions. Emma could recall two things with perfect clarity. One was her grandmothers pinched facial expression—perhaps an etched look of distain as she was said to walkabout life never agreeing to be satisfied with anything—clearly her mother's disposition which all said Emma had inherited was from her mother was from her grandfather the Duke line. The second was the stiff, almost unfeeling way her grandmother had patted her hand when greeting her. To her recollection, the patting gesture was just the same, though her husband was perhaps more sympathetic.

She bit her lip but consciously chose not to release him from her hold. He might not have hated her, but if that were true it was only because he was above it, far too good a man and this she knew so well already. It was nothing to do with what she deserved but simply a point of fact in having married the greatest gentleman in all of Highbury—and very possibly all the world.

* * *

What do you think? Please leave a review! I am hoping to write one more chapter before September 1 but will need your support! Thanks!


	13. Exchange

**Chapter 13**

Exchange

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."  
― Jane Austen

* * *

 _June 9th, 1815_

 _Dear Mr. Frank Churchill,_

 _Thank you for sending me correspondence. It was a privilege to receive post courtesy of Yorkshire. As is not often that I receive post from farther afield than London, It was with very great delight that I received post all the way from Yorkshire. So great in fact that it was absolutely painstaking to wait until afternoon tea to show the post to my husband, although I learned later that he had no wish to read—it was a battle of the will and a great lesson in patience to be sure!_

 _And to the main question of your letter, I would be honoured to make a standing arrangement to take tea with Mrs. Weston at a set time and day of the week. Thursday seems the most agreeable and I have already asked, and this suits all. I will be there at tea time every Thursday to be—I believe buffer was that the word you had for it. So should you call on the Weston's house Thursday at afternoon tea it will be a more agreeable time, there is a guarantee that you would be more comfortable and more at ease as you are sure to know at least one people and have one friend among the family. It would please me greatly to provide you this service and I hope it is not too many teas that are taken in your absence. For I do know that you are kept at bay by some emotion or another, but I must insist that your stepmother, Mrs. Weston, and your father are dear sweet people who have only your best interest at heart. And you must know that they adore you completely from a distance and I assure you that I am completely certain that this sentiment will be more evident in proximity. It will be a great honour to be a part of the reunion between you and your father and I hope it is not much longer for he is a man who talks of little else than of the happy prospect of seeing you again._

 _With respect to the lady you mentioned at the party, I find myself abundantly curious. What is she like? You said at the party that you did not even like her at first. What changed your mind and opinion? What is it that made you fall in love with her?_

 _If the last question is too forward for our current level of friendship I understand. I would prefer that you leave it out in your reply—do not let it prevent you from responding. It is not merely gossip or information to me; I am genuinely intrigued about this topic. What is it that allows a person to fall in love with another person? Is it always the same? For instance, what would allow my husband to love me? What should the basis of such a feeling be? Is it different for every sort of person? I do not expect you to be an expert on the subject, but that you might have the potential to offer some clue from your own personal experience. Once, more do not allow my question to delay a response if the subject is not to your comfort or liking. If nothing else you are simply a person who has been let in on my wonderance of late._

 _I do look forward to hearing from you and perchance seeing you at some Thursday or another at Randalls for tea in the not too distant future._

 _With sincerity your new friend,_

 _Emma_

 _June 11_ _th_ _, 1815_

 _Dear Emma,_

 _Thank you for saying so. It is relieving to know that there is at least one person counting on and encouraging my visit. And I do not for a moment think that you are the only one, for I am certain that you are right, that my father and Mrs. Weston would be overjoyed to see me and I will aim, in so far that I am able, to expedite the process so that they are not kept waiting with a large amount of angst. It would bring me great joy to see my father happy and it is my expressed wish that this endeavour should not be a time consuming commitment on your part. Although I recall you mentioned that Mrs. Weston is a close friend, I do not wish to overstep or inconvenience you or keep you in suspense. I have the notion that you are not one to appreciate the idea of suspense._

 _As for the other matter I have no issue confiding in you the nature of my feelings and the inspiration behind them._

 _She is a woman above reproach who I am continually more impress by with every moment I spend in her company. What I once thought shyness is a magical, reserved quiet. It is judicious rather than ignorant —it is not that she lacks intellectual things to say. Her variety of quiet is tranquility it is thinking, it is regal and it is dainty. In her expression she is aware, unassuming and tirelessly patient. And when you do hear her speak, let me assure you it is well thought out, in the most magnificent of ways. She is creative—to hear her tell a story—relaying a real story or something of fiction it is quite something, transfixing even. It is a gifting really and while she is reserved in her words it is just that she has weighed each so carefully—it is a practical response as if it were wasteful to be superfluous and she has a fierce economy. And because she doles each word out with careful intentionality, each words seems more precious to my ears than the words of any other person. As she is not wasteful, I find I am increasingly eager to know what she will say, to know what it is she thinks—a true idea of supply and demand I dare say. Followers of Smith would be invigorated I dare say to hear me talk of it._

 _She is brilliant really—she is witty and impossibly clever. And her is remarkably good—her kindness knows no bounds. She is a good person to everyone and means no harm or foul to any. She has never had an enemy in her life and I am convinced that many would have believed her a rival but she is above it, far too good for that sort of petty nonsense._

 _She has not known great wealth in her life and she is economical in how she dresses but she is radiant none the less. Sit her next to any number of grand beauties of all sorts of wealth and income and they would pale in comparison to her. For some people, their eyes will catch the sparkle off of the earrings or the necklace of some grand lady and they will believe that it is she that sparkles. It is amazing how easily it is possible for people to be convinced that it is the lady that sparkles when in actuality it may have nothing to do with the light in her eyes, or the beauty of her countenance but instead the glint of a gilded adornment intended to make up for the lady's lack of the former two. Or perhaps it is the kind words others have spoken of her—such as that others have said that she is pretty, well then she must be pretty, mustn't she? No my darling sparkles in only the most authentic of ways and many might miss it, she is not the centre of attention in any way._

 _I have met many women in my time, whether it is in the country side, in Yorkshire, abroad or in London or in travels to Ireland. While they might have a persona of sweetness it is decorative in nature. That is to say it is not their true nature and rather an adornment like a broch or some piece of jewelry that might be added for effect. This is not the case with the woman I love, she is gentle and kind and gracious to all that know her, she is sweetness to her very core and she understands no other way of being._

 _She is a fine lady and to say nothing of her appearance I would be in error. It is not her greatest asset simply because of the grand nature of her other qualities. For while she is a great beauty, I must say her looks are not the highest points of who she is, which is due only to the great stature of her character. And yet often it appear she is overlooked, for she is not wealthy and her quiet nature is sometime misunderstood. I acclaim that it is to my benefit that she would be overlooked by others, as I am certain that I am not near even half of her equal in either attractiveness and goodness of character._

 _In appearance she is petite and fine featured, she has large wide eyes and looks as if she in taking in the entire world in one glance. Her hair is soft in its appearance, glowing and her cheeks always have a cheerful, healthy glow. She is a radiant brunette, with pulls of almost a garnet colour through her hair. Her general appearance is warm like the tones of a forest in the fall, and her complexion is clear and holds warm tones in every season._

 _Even when she is fixated on other things, be it reading or listening to a person she gaze and mouth is soft and gentle in appearance, lively and interested. She allows one to see what it is she is thinking, at just a look at her features. She is a genuine person, with no pretense or falsehood about her. She is charming once you get to know her. Should you entreat her goodness you will see her true radiance, she is wonderful._

 _And maybe I have said too much. I will stop on the overview as I am obviously enraptured and I have a notion that my gushing on and on is more than you may have bargained for when you posed the question._

 _In your piece you mention a curiosity about love. I in turn cannot help but be curious about what has rustled up the question from your mind. I think I can speak in direction of your husband's feelings, that he does love you. You will wonder at how I know this, and you might even disbelieve me. I will simply say that is one of the things that a man can just tell with an easy glance. We understand our fellow man well in this way. Yes, you husband loves you and you will no doubt wish to have some form of confirmation, as you are not so able to discern it at a glance as any man might. In favour of confirmation I would suggest you kiss him, you will know an amorous reaction when you do._

 _You'll have to write me telling me that I am correct,_

 _Until then,_

 _Frank Churchill_

June 16th, 1815

 _Mr. Churchill,_

 _You are fortunate that you are not in proximity and that you find yourself at a safe distance in Yorkshire which prevents me from smacking you. Were you in the distance of my arm span I assure you I would not have hesitated for one moment to slap you. And this is, I assure you, an incredible accomplishment, as despite my moment of high temper, I have never been reduced to smacking anyone, not even my sister as children._

 _I will confess that my gasp was completely audible; even servants in the hall outside the parlor where I took my afternoon tea had heard my gasp of horror as I read it. Perhaps you heard it, even at your distance in Yorkshire! You ought not put into writing things that will startle a person so greatly, and moreover, what if my husband had read it? Can you imagine my mortification? You are lucky—no I am lucky that he has no wish to read mail that I receive. But as I had not confided to you that information, you would have no way to know that! As a result, I am thus rendered shocked that you would place in writing what might mortify me so greatly. Poorly done Frank, I am likely to remain cross with you and do not have the ambition or good manners to make small talk about the other particulars of your letter, but to say I hope to meet your sweetheart someday._

 _It is likely best that you did not attend Thursday Tea yesterday; it would have been a battle of my will to prevent myself from unleashing a tirade. I assure you that I will not be so cross by next week and you should not be in danger of attending then._

 _Your still cross friend,_

 _Emma_

June 19th, 1815

 _Emma,_

 _I could well imagine your crossness at the recommendation in my last letter. Yes, I feel I am at a safe distance in Yorkshire, but I can also well imagine your shrill voice and cross reaction._

 _Perhaps you have found yourself exclaiming "Mr. Churchill, I will do no such thing" to the empty halls of your room while your husband is away managing the affairs of his estate._

 _Or maybe seething to yourself words like "How improper of Frank to say such a thing!" as you are aggressively pruning back the shrubbery. But I will remind you that he is your husband and you have every right to kiss him, should you wish to. There is nothing improper about it. And I will ask you, if only to add to your crossness, do you want to kiss him? As he is your husband there is no sense going in a roundabout way._

 _Do you wish him to be in love with you? Or I should say do you wish him to_ _show_ _that he is in love with you? For it is your action that he is waiting on. I have a general idea of the man your husband is from the report of others. It is said that he is not one that is quick to change his mind or his behaviour or his actions. He is a steadfast man indeed, said to be stable and reliable in every sort of way. From this I would gather that he is not one to overstep; while he is not a cautious man, he is prudent; he is smart, and well witted._

 _I would assume that he watches things and has a keen understanding of many things. Although he understands the world around him and he understands his business, you must not assume that he understands the thinking of a woman. For even a woman at times may not understand perfectly her own thinking and feelings, it is without a good deal of confidence that most men approach the subject._

 _And I think your actions, as I have mentioned to you before at the Coles' party have told him a consistent message. You will have shown him through your past actions what he understands as disinterest. You have given him the same message that you have given to any other man which is "Stay back", "I am not interested", "I am not ready to change,"._

 _And will own that I am not clairvoyant; I must admit I did hear a rumor or two in my time at Highbury. Excuse me if it proves false but I heard a rumor that many were surprised you had married at all, without real necessity as you had often said "I am Miss Woodhouse and I am never to marry," –all this together would be enough of a message to dissuade even the dimmest of men. And yet the contrasting effect ought to dare the bravest of men to try. Would he be the one that is able to convince the great Emma Woodhouse that he was the one worthy of her affection? And as yours is not a natural marriage but one of some level of convenience on someone's part—the rumor mill does not seem to fully understand your motivations, but all are perfectly convinced your husband would not have married but for loving you. And they all speak so favorably of you, saying earnestly "for who could help but love Emma?"_

 _They say he has always been enraptured with you; wrapped around your finger and deigning to grant your every wish. This was confessed to me with some degree of jealous; apparently there are women in Highbury that wish he might have hung off their every word as he has yours for years._

 _Since he is one that hangs off of your every word and would undoubtedly grant your every wish, I suggest you think about what it is you wish your marriage to look like. The situation of convenience as it is requires that he relies on you and your inclination._

 _I hope to return to Highbury to hear that you have taken my advice, but I will not press you on it just yet. Heaven knows Emma does not like to be tested on anything with any degree of severity! But know in the future if it isn't something you've taken up, I might turn it into a challenge for you! I have some notion that a challenge would spur you on in ways I've not yet fully considered._

 _Until then,_

 _Frank_

June 21st, 1815

 _Mr. Churchill, (and yes I will continue with the formal title until my ire dies down)_

 _I am sure you were looking for a reaction and as such I will merely say that you did get one. Not near so shocked as the last letter, as I feel I was somewhat more prepared for what you might say. I still look forward to the prospect of you visit but understand, it would be unwise to bring the matter up again, especially in my proximity. Consider it a warning Mr. Churchill._

 _I will ignore the entirety of what you have told me in your last letter and act the responsible adult and offer a change of topic._

 _To the figure of you previous letter, this lady that you have painted so vividly I almost feel I know her already._

 _I would be obliged to act in your interest in this area. You mentioned the difficulty of your aunt at the Cole's party and I extended my willingness to support._

 _Were I to know her name, I might befriend her. It would be a strong connection for her if she were to be a friend of Emma Woodhouse-strike that and read Knightley, for I do not feel it necessary to rewrite the letter on account of the name error. If it would please you, I would host a dinner party and invite a selection of friends. Naturally as you are my friend (even after what you have said about me and my husband-you are still my friend but remember that you are lucky that I have a perchance for forgiveness) and she will be my new friend, it would diminish any sort of speculation-simply thought of as a gathering of Emma Knightley's friends._

 _I must acknowledge that I will not be a liberty to do so until you have become reacquainted with your father. I am certain it would seem impossibly callous if I were to host parties inviting the son when his own father is such a dear friend and the relationship has not been reconciled._

 _Until then,_

 _Emma_

* * *

Sorry that this took an age! I learned something about myself, apparently I don't really enjoy writing in an epistolary style. This will be the only chapter like it, but I wanted to give you insight into Emma and Frank's friendship and not have it be a big mystery. I am hoping it came off okay. Feedback? Advice?

I'm not the biggest fan of reading epistolary novels (meaning that, I don't read them), so I understand if this isn't everyone favourite chapter. Just hoping it isn't too different or awkward compared to the other chapters.

As always please review, as I would love feedback on this chapter and what worked (or didn't work!)


	14. Reunion

**Chapter 14**

Reunion

* * *

A hint of shadow was thrown because of the fire. Perhaps it drew her notice first because of the way the flames flicker now and then, light dancing across the upper and shadow collecting under the lower.

Or at least that was what she told herself.

If not that, then maybe it was the different shapes conjured when he spoke, smooth lines, the crook of a smile with sometime mildly amusing or flattening and tightening with a serious tale. Perhaps the most noticeable was the gentle press out that jutted out the lower of the two when he was looking for her approval in some way; it was actually her inspection of him that drew her notice to the fact he even did that; seek her approval that is. She had not been keenly aware of it before.

Or maybe it was the colours themselves, the peach tones that ranged from almost a flesh like nougat candy colour to that of a ripe peach sherbet. She blushed at when the thought that both descriptors were very much appetizing.

This was very much Frank's fault, for he was the one that had put the thought in her head when he said " _I would suggest you kiss him…"_

And she would blame Mr. Churchill later for ultimately being the cause of her thoughts but for now she was transfixed. Thinking about the shading it would take on her sketch book later to reproduce its likeness. The fullness of the bottom lip, the arch of Cupid 's bow, the way the left corner seemed slightly more expressive than the right. For then she would be able to look deeper and a longer and later she thought to herself without stirring any questions or without embarrassment.

 _She heard Frank's words again in her mind's eye "Do you wish him to show that he is in love with you?"_

" _Kiss him," he encouraged._

She caught herself as she almost lifted her hand from her lap to reach towards him.

The action registered with her mind first, thankfully. She pulled back sharply enough and with a quick intake of breath, that Mr. Knightley stopped talking and looked at her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, "was I boring you?" he added, thinking she had the look about her of one roused from almost sleeping.

She shook her head "No," hardly trusting herself to talk.

A blush flamed her cheeks; how positively embarrassing to be nearly caught out in such thoughts; oh, how— would he notice? Had he? She panicked. Would he ask her about what absorbed her thoughts or why her face was so coloured? She needed to get ahead of it, "I'm warm from the fire, feel my face" She rambled quickly drawing his hand into hers and pressing his cool-to-the-touch palm to her cheek. "I was not bored, certainly not—fascinated um—no, not exactly fascinated but I meant to say you are not boring me Mr. Knightley please continue," –all this she said holding his hand against her—and then she, realizing the strangeness of it all and perhaps that her cheek flushed even more against his touch, flustered further and dropped his hand as if burnt by it.

"And you are certain nothing is the matter?" he asked her—looking at her squarely. It completely unnerved her than her eyes sought out his lips of their own accord—perhaps out of habit.

 _Oh!_

Could one form a habit so quickly?

She panicked again, "I'm fine, I go to visit Mrs. Weston tomorrow for our weekday tea, I am certainly not willing to be sick—as I think on in now, perhaps I should go to bed. After all father had a lot to say on the merits of young women getting the correct amount of sleep. It is good for one's skin, one's comportment and one's constitution. Yes, that it a wise notion. I want to be well rested for taking tea tomorrow, "

She stood, "Good night," and curtsied awkwardly out of—it was deplorable but she could not even say it was out of habit for her had never curtsied to him in her life.

"You may say I have inspired your drowsiness Emma, I will not be offended," he called after her but she didn't have the heart or the state of mind to reply.

She was an idiot.

This was all Frank's fault!

* * *

She had been expecting to pass the entire time sitting out of doors with Mrs. Weston and sketch while talking. It was so reminiscent of old times when she would draw while talking idly to Mr. Knightley and her governess. She aimed to avoid thinking of how much had changed since. She thought slyly, she would not be asking for advice on shading this time, as she practiced sketching the images of a certain mouth that would not leave her thoughts. Mrs. Weston had always had an eye for subtle detail; Emma would not be surprised if she could discern the owner of said mouth after looking upon a few of its sketched expressions. It may have been foolish but she hoped perhaps she could extract the images or reduce its presence in her mind by copying them to page.

It really was Frank Churchill fault, Emma thought ruefully as she continued sketching.

Speak of the devil and he doth appear. In this case it was not right away but the point stood. She heard the gravel and looked up from her sketchbook to see that he walked up the garden path shoulder to shoulder with his father.

She held back the glare with sheer willpower; afterall this fixation was his fault.

Emma snapped her sketchbook shut and held it tightly to her side as the two gentlemen neared the picnic blanket.

She had never seen Mr. Weston face look so please, save for maybe at his wedding to her own friend Mrs. Weston. Sheer joy radiated off of him in waves.

She vaguely recalled Mr. Weston's happy cheer, "Someone you both should meet, my son Frank Churchill,"

"Oh! You are as handsome as all have said—and to see the delight you have brought to your father's face. We have been looking forward to seeing you; it is such an honour to meet you!" Mrs. Weston charmed.

" _Frank Churchill_ , a name I know better than my own, for I have heard it so many times," she gushed smoothly, "Emma Knightley, pleased to meet you," –mentally she thought of how at present the familiarity was more likely due to the seething recitation of his name in her head as her mind had been concocting ways to retaliate against him while she had tried miserably to fall asleep the night before.

"I hate to interrupt your tea," he promised, "and were you sketching just now? I should think you might have been interrupted," he offered politely.

"It is nothing, we can easily have tea service brought for you and Mr. Weston to join us," Mrs. Weston offered agreeably.

And to Emma's surprise her it was the beginning of what turned into a very agreeable afternoon.

* * *

"Oh, I wish you might have been there to see it," Emma exclaimed as soon as she was near him. In her own excitement she seemed to forget herself slightly, her hands braced against his forearms pivoting around him like a small child ambitiously trying to spin a larger marry-go-round intended for the older children. "I have never in my life seen Mr. Weston look so happy, oh and that is in confidence because course I believe Mr. Weston was very happy the day he married Ms. Taylor, I would never repeat it to my dear friend but this seemed even more than that. I mean, it must-have been liken to how Moses appeared after the mountain top! Mr. Weston's face seemed to almost grow more and more radiant as the afternoon went on! One might imagine him capable of bursting if left too long in the company of his newly returned son. Thankfully that didn't happen and after a long tea and joyful conversation Mr. Churchill needed to head back to London, after which he will return to Yorkshire the following day,"

"And you are clearly very happy," Mr. Knightley told her, stopping her spinning him but doing nothing to remove her hands from his person.

"Oh, well yes I am—I think I have been burdened more than I thought under the secretiveness of it all—I mean, to have met Mr. Churchill already, all the while knowing that his Father and step mother have not been reacquainted or aquatinted as the case may be. Thankfully I was not too surprised at his arrival that I blundered. How awful that would have been? No, I will not think on that now—I am so happy that it has all worked itself out." Emma explained, flexing and relaxing her hands unconsciously as bouts of stress came and went as she spoke.

"Indeed, and not only to have met him but to have been corresponding with him secretively, it must have been a tremendous bur—," he started rich with sarcasm and it was his turn to be surprised as one of her hands left its place on his arm and she pressed two fingers against his lips.

"Please let us not," she said softly. And then she was rapidly trying to ignore the fact that her fingers were pressed against where her eyes had inspected so thoroughly to the point of distraction the previous night. And yet she couldn't ignore the fact that despite the way his lips were pulled in a tight line reflecting his annoyance with the Churchill situation, they were still markedly soft under her touch.

She suppressed the shuttering feeling that threatened to tremor through her. "If you promise not to goad me I will remove my hand," she offered the ultimatum; she could literally feel his exhale against her hand, hot and humid.

"Is that agreement?" She asked, her fingers itched to be removed or perhaps simply to move from their place as they were stationary against his lips.

"Fine, what is it you wish to talk about instead?" he asked, his eyes focused intently on her own. Her hand fell away as quickly as it could.

"I thought we might talk about my birthday party, I know you had said a ball was out of the questions but perhaps a small gathering of close friends—what would you say to that?" She asked, still standing impossibly near him, and she couldn't help it if while she spoke she was rubbing the tips of one set of her fingers against her other set as one hand still buzzed from the sensation of touching his lips.

"Well since you are so well versed in persuasion, my mind on it shouldn't signify, for I do not think you would find it hard to convince me otherwise," he muttered.

"You are marring my motives, you make it sound as if I have some callous reason or have applied some form of enchantment!" She gripped at his arm again and applied pressure this time as if to prove her seriousness, "I have no foul motives, I simply do not wish to fight with you, not tonight, not ever—please?" she looked up at him with big blue eyes and stared directly into his own hazel green—his almost had a grey property about them in this light. "Please?" she repeated.

 _Please what?_ She thought to herself hearing her own voice reflexively in her own ears.

Her eyes found his lips again of their own accord. She couldn't help but wonder what her lips would feel if they, like her fingers were placed there. For she could not remember the feel from her wedding day—for it was too much a surprise and as she had not expected it had seems there and gone before she could really dwell on what was transpiring. The details were hazy, all that she was left to remember was that it was a pleasant feeling.

Frank Churchill's words sprang to mind. _"…you have every right to kiss him, should you wish to."_

"I won't tease you," he insisted, and for the briefest of moments the wires were crossed somehow and in her mind she took his words to mean a response to her thoughts which were dedicated purely to the idea of kissing him. _Please just kiss me,_ she thought silently.

"I can't help but feel that I do not want to be the one to initiate," she murmured softly, followed by a sigh, her gaze roving to meet his eyes, as if it might convince him to follow-through.

"Initiate?" he asked quizzically, looking at her strangely.

And just like that the spell was broken. Her eyes widened, her heart began beating rapidly as she was panicking and staring at him—opening and closing her mouth without a single sensible thing to say.

"Initiate what?" he repeated, and her mind was racing then to find explanation

"Initiate a fight, or weren't you listening to a word I said?" she asked with a scoff, giving her best rendition of the churlish belittling tone she had heard the shopkeeper Mrs. Mitcham use to beak her husband when he had said or done something foolish.

She pushed herself away from him with a small amount of force. "It was silly, forget I ever asked about it, I've decided I do not wish to have a birthday party of any fashion," she reeled, calling out her reprisal over her shoulder as she turned away –she desperately needed to escape.

"Emma stop," he called after her. She had only just turned on her heel to walk away—in a real argument she might have been halfway across the room at this point.

"I'm sorry, I have no qualms with your idea for a birthday party," he told her, "I reacted foolishly, mostly because I envisioned your new friend Frank in attendance of the party," he explained.

She drew a quick breath of relief. Had that really worked?

"You needn't worry about Frank, and yes I would invite him but I also intend to invite the lady who is the object of his adoration—should he provide the name to me in time to do so. Regardless, trust me that Frank Churchill need not be a cause of jealousy."

He sighed.

"While were are still somewhat amiable, I think I will go and read awhile before supper," she explained.

"Read awhile?" he reflected, "Who are you and what have you done with my wife?" he attempted humour.

"Oh George darling you know me so well," she cooed at him petting his cheek, trying to sound the part of a doting wife, hoping in earnest that silliness would help both to forget the tense moments from moments earlier. "I did not say a book mind you, Mrs. Weston gave me a few clipped articles on gardening from a periodical she subscribes," she explained, stepping near enough to kiss him daintily on his cheek. It was the same action she had used all her life to bid her own papa good night or in greeting but it did not feel at all the same. "See you at supper," she added.

"Would you mind if I requested it in the study?" he asked,

She paused, "Oh, you wish to eat alone?" her heart sunk a little.

"No, I meant for us both in the study—I prefer the smaller table if we are planning a birthday party for you," he explained.

"Oh I see, I think of the study as belonging to you, and being rather off limits, so naturally I assumed that maybe you wished to have some space away from me for a meal which I would completely understand but—" she prattled, but stopped herself suddenly, hating the way his eyes looked when she noticed his expression.

"Oh, I see! It is as if you imagine yourself in the fairytale La Belle. That's right, you must be the famed beauty—I can see the resemblance keenly. Donwell must be the beastly castle and that would leave me to the role of beast—how kind. Oh but beauty darling, I forget. When was it exactly that I forbid you access to any part of the estate?" he asked sardonic in tone and humour.

She wasn't entirely sure how to respond but realized quickly that she would not have to, as he pulled her close to him, kissed her cheek in the same fashion she had his earlier and then patted her cheek. "Go read, beauty."

She blushed for what felt the hundredth time as a flutter of pleasures coursed through her. She quit the space quickly to do the very thing.

* * *

A/N: Sorry all. I know that this has taken forever. Thank you for all that expressed concern. In the words of a certain Monty python character 'I'M NOT DEAD! I am doing pretty good, I have no excuses for the lack of updates aside from Netflix feeling way easier for 'decompressing' after work than writing. I remember in high school writing was my main way to release stress.

But I felt motivated yesterday and I updated my other Emma story yesterday and then felt drawn to writing a chapter for this one. I missed it. I missed my angst-y and tenuous- Emma & Knightley combination. Hopefully you guys did too, but not too much because I know it has been forever since the last update.

I need some honest feedback on this one. What are your thoughts on Emma in this chapter -believable or are you guys feeling like her thoughts have come out of left-field?

What are your thoughts on Mr. Knightley in this chapter?

Any requests of what you might like to see from them (or from other characters) in future chapters?

Despite delays, are you still interested in where this story is going?


	15. A Day to Remember

**Chapter 15**

A Day to Remember

* * *

She had thought he had forgotten.

It stung at first—even in her earliest memories she had always been given something by him. A book of fairy stories when she turned four was the earliest of her actual memories but she was certain he had presented her a rattle as soon as his term break allowed him to be back from Eton College when she was born.

She knew this because although it had lost the soft velvet ribbon, she still had the rattle packed up in a box of other sentimental trinkets. It was the first gift and naturally it was sentimental. One might wonder if a sixteen year old boy had had any involvement in picking out a childish rattle or if it was merely passed off as a gift but she knew it was from him. Her father had shown her how to understand manufactures stamps and when she had looked on its markings it clearly showed it was even manufactured in Windsor –home of Eton College which proved he had chosen it himself and that it wasn't merely something picked out by his mother.

"Any special requests for the evening meal?" Mrs. Hodges had even asked her.

Emma must have been more sullen looking than she felt for she shook her head. "I love surprises, especially on my birthday," she explained with a manufactured sort of cheer.

It was silly. She shouldn't be so moved by something as simple as an oversight.

 _He likely is thinking that we will celebrate my birthday on the day of the party._ She assured herself.

Needn't be extravagant. It would be rather foolish to celebrate twice.

She was feeling better by lunch time, she brought the flowers she had collected in through the back kitchen doors where cook stopped her.

"Mr. Knightley said that you have had no taste for cake since—uh rather no taste for cake in recent months and I—is he to be relied upon? I couldn't fathom not wanting cake for my birthday. And especially at one and twenty such a wonderful age, a true cause of celebration," cook prattled. "Is it true about the cake, dear?"

"It is true," she smiled pleased that Mr. Knightley, regardless of gifts, hadn't forgotten it was her birthday afterall. "But I know Mr. Knightley very much enjoys cake, you might at least allow him to enjoy it on my behalf," she told her with a warm smile.

Her sweet tooth had been a source of conflict at times between her and her papa. The one delighting in sweets and confections at all times, and the other believing all sugars to be pressing all—man, woman or child towards an early grave. It was almost ironic to her that she lost all desire for sweets in near proximity to his passing.

"Gateau cakes are his favourite, if you pair it with fresh seasonal fruits I will certainly eat the raspberries," Emma told her.

"Excellent idea," the cook smile and Emma left the room with her basket of flower so that she could make fresh arrangements for the parlor and her bedroom.

* * *

"I hadn't thought I would find you sleeping on your birthday," Mr. Knightley exclaimed and she roused from her spot on the recliner in the garden.

"I was sketching and I must've dozed off," she offered blinking, and then wincing slightly as the rays hitting her eyes before they had fully adjusted.

"Practicing mouths? I've always thought your sketches were rather lifelike and without the want of practice but perhaps it is like the pianoforte and scales, where one practices scales to learn and with the expressed intention of not needing to practice scales in the future, only to find that they still must play scales out of some sense of obligation or compulsory habit even once they are impossibly accomplished."

"You sound the expert, any hidden pianoforte talents you've neglected to inform me about?" Emma smirked, closing her sketchbook gently as she moved to sit up, bringing her hand to block the sun from her eyes so that she could better see his face. More than a little fixated as his mouth crooked in a light smile in response to her words.

"I am no Haydn, sorry to disappoint but my mother would play scales, repetitively as her illness worsened, but when she was healthy she was really very good," he stopped seeing the question etched on her face, "it was some form of a disease, an almost delirium, and it worsened with time but that's enough somberness and tale of woe. I apologize, Emma. Do forgive me; it was hardly the topic to bring up for a birthday celebration. All that to say I remember enjoying her playing so well as a young boy," he sat on the seat next to her, her expression still looked pained. He'd never confided anything to her about his mother before.

"You needn't apologize for anything," she said, "really, I don't mind sharing my birthday with your memories, happy or sad. It is what friends do," Emma offered with a light smile.

Perhaps taking in his reaction to the word she altered her phrasing, "Really there is nothing that could prevent me from wanting to know all there is to know about those that I love, I think it is in my nature, a curiosity definitely but also a deep caring,"

"Yes, I suppose I know it," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "Now, come and see your first gift," he told her and she was aware that he likely wanted to change the subject.

"First gift? Does that imply that you have gotten me more than one? George you certainly did not need to. Haven't you heard it said for years that Emma Woodhouse was spoilt? You yourself had warned my father about the dangers of overindulging me but now you will follow suit as well? Tsk-tsk," she admonished gently but her face was overflowing with smiles.

"I was never speaking about gifts Emma," he tossed back, holding the garden doors open for her.

"Pray, what were you speaking about then?"

"A father who would step to your every whim, a governess who would do the same, leaving me the last bastion against you running roughshod over everything,"

"Oh yes, because you were so well versed in telling me no," she laughed teasingly. "I remember you brought me an entire bag of cherry lollipops from London because I had asked you for **one** ,"

"Oh Emma dear prepare yourself, you have unwittingly struck a sore spot! I went into six confection shops to find that godforsaken flavour. A flavour which I almost believed to have been mythical but for the fact that you had been given the _most scrumptious_ cherry lollipop by that French friend of Doctor Hughes and begged specifically for it to be cheery and forewarned that it not be mint or lemon. The testimony and your ardor proved the flavour must have been real and I was half convinced I'd be forced a trip to France as you couldn't have asked for lemon or mint like a normal child, certainly not, it needed to be cherry. So yes, Emma you had better believe that in the sixth shop upon discovering cherry I bought every last cherry lollipop they had in stock on the expectation that they would last you for several years. But to your point, yes I was better versed in telling you no, at least more often than others, or when it was on a matter that did not involve my opinion, I at least, would point out the potentiality for error privately to your father, if not in advance then retroactively,"

"Six confection shops! Well and here I thought you were looking to alarm my father at the sight of an eight pound sack of lollipops and yes, cook assayed it with her kitchen scale and yes they did last a very, very long time on the reason that they were locked in a high cupboard a doled out when I did especially well in arithmetic or on occasions when I practiced piano for more than one hour without prompting," she explained.

"—to think of the rarity of both those things— I have a strong suspicion that cupboard might be still rather full of lollipops," he retorted.

She used her hand to slap at him gently, it seemed more a brush against him than a blow of any kind.

Her hand was still pressed at his chest when she saw the box, large, so white it was practically gleaming with a large red bow. She recognized the name on the packaging; it was from an expensive London dressmaker that exclusively used silk from Lyon. She didn't travel, every dress she owned was a product of a Highbury dressmaker.

"Oh, wow, you needed have really, I—thank you,"

"Open it," he offered,

The bow slipped freely, untying easily. And the box once opened revealed an abundance of soft tissue.

The dress colour was breath taking; it held similarities to her favourite rosy peach colour dress. The fabric was gloriously soft and every bit a true ball gown. Oh, how immaculate each tuck and seam was, though Emma believe the people of Highbury to be every bit as accomplished as those in London, she could not help but admire the workmanship.

"It is beautiful, almost Grecian in its detailing, very charming. I have an antirrhinum majus flower, in the exact shade of pink. The fabric is so rich, the pink colour almost seems to have a peach undertone within it—almost iridescent. Thank you, it is lovely and I adore it in every way—you have excellent taste," she rattled off quickly, turned again toward him to kiss his cheek. "feel how soft and light it is," she said smiling up and him, as she pressed the fabric into his hand. "Isn't it delicious? I cannot wait until I am at liberty to wear it—but I am ever so pleased you did not choose it in a mourning colour for expedience sake," she added with a bigger smile.

"That fits in well with the second gift I have planned; I was hoping you would wear it tonight,"

"But this," she giggled lightly, "it is a ball gown," the wrinkles in her nose were almost enough to have him spoil the secret.

"Yes, but as it is just you and I here there is nothing preventing you from wearing the colour as you will not be in public, but put it on after supper if it is spilling that you are anxious about,"

"Oh, the mockery! I am not a child Mr. Knightley! I am not worried about pouring food all over myself. Even little Henry is old enough to feed himself without tossing it all asunder, heavens!" she reeled back, almost wanting to hit at him again. "I'll wear it! I swear, at times I wonder what do you make me for?" she muttered more to herself than to him.

"It was meant to be a logical assumption, not a personal insult," he told her.

"Alright, then the real question remains as to whether you are competent enough to dine in your finest suit or if you prefer to dress in it afterwards," she tossed back with a manufactured sweetness.

She waited a tick, "Now tell me you do not feel the slightest sting of insult," she asked with on arched raised brow.

"Not a'tall, in fact since fine suits are always considerably less comfortable as a general rule I see it sensible not to dress again until after supper,"

* * *

"See, not a spot," she boasted.

"Are you sure, I think that might be one just there," he motioned towards her right side.

"No! Where?" she asked lifting her arm and trying to look in the direction her pointed.

He chuckled. "That was my attempt at humour, you ought see your face, it is priceless really," he laughed again, his boyish sounding laugh. "And I should say, it is still early yet and I heard you requested cake. In fact, cook said you deliberately chose my favourite." He sighed lightly taking a bite of his cake, "I enjoy that you applied your capability and knowingness to picking my favourite dessert for I am certain I have never confided to you my preference. It was sweet of you Emma,"

"Says the man who picked the dress colour to closely match my favourite dress and who once entered six separate confection shops, undoubtedly scattered across London, to find a special variety of lollipop, and proceeded to buy eight imperial pounds,"

"Alright, well you have a valid point; I suppose we ought make a contest of it from this point on, " he reflected, "this cake is really very good, won't you try some?" He asked holding his fork towards her, and she sat in the stop she often picked, instead of at the far end of the dining room table, she sat directly at his right.

"It is so very sweet, mind you I have never had it but I think it would make me crave a cup of coffee," she offered, "Mr. Larkin's coffee had such a hearty aroma when I pass by the kitchen the other day and I thought to myself it might be a pleasant thing. I heard coffee is very bitter and it might mellow the sweetness—tone it down, if it works that way, do you think it does?"

"Coffee? Really Emma how pedestrian of you; next you'll want to work in textile factory or to become a miner at Hudson forge or some other earthly place,"

"I'll eat your raspberry, that is if you are keen to share it," she added ignoring his comment.

"Well, in that I aim to win the contest, I suppose I must—I'm sure a beautiful Donwell raspberry will allow me to just edge you out in the sweetness department," he said in a serious tone.

"Yes, the points are tallied and I am currently winning," he added, taking his fork back to take another bite of cake, "Delicious, Emma if you'll try the cake you'll bring it to a tie, for it would make me very happy to see you enjoying the thing you used to enjoy so immensely. Afterall, who is Emma without cake? Be it dreams of cake or schemes of how to convince the servant to serve her extra cake?"

She smiled at the memory; she had certainly been a crafty child. "I will try it; it is strange to say it but I think perhaps that I have grown up finally, well at least in this way, that somehow without my full notice my tastes have changed," she took a bite from his fork again, "it is very rich, I like the chocolate flavor but the sweetness overwhelms,"

"And here I didn't think I'd ever see the day that there would be an area where you had grown more mature than I was," he told her.

She swatted at him.

He chuckled, "It'll not be in the horseplay department for a good many year, if at all,"

She laughed.

"Another raspberry?"

* * *

AN: Thanks to those that reviewed, it honestly just makes my day. I am so glad some of you are enjoying this and that you are following along. I so love the feedback and suggestions.

To the reviewer that wants Knightley to express a change in his mind from what he said to his brother in the past (chapter 3). I think that we will see this in actions as time goes, but don't expect to hear him say it. I'm a pretty big fan of the line " _ **If I loved you less**_ , I might be _**able to talk about it more**_.," –I see Knightley as being a man of action especially when words fail.


	16. A Party

Reviewer: Guest chapter 15 . 9h ago - Thank you for you kind words and encouragement. I had this chapter mostly written just needing the finishing touches. I have not forgotten about this story! I have had a few other demands on my time lately. I read your review and figure I would take an hour or so tonight to finish this chapter off and get it posted.

Thanks to everyone that reviews! Honestly the kind words are always so motivating and I am so grateful that so many of you care enough about this story to give feedback and telling about what you are liking or noticing! I cherish these reviews and get so excited when I see a review update in my email inbox!

Thanks you guys are amazing!

Without further ado, I give you the next chapter:

 **Chapter 16**

A Party

* * *

"You have to promise to keep your eyes shut," he told her.

"Oh, you know I've always had a struggle about peeking! It isn't my fault, it is the anticipation of it all; but I know you wouldn't blame me for you know my personality too well. You'd have to have known I'd find the expectation too much to endure!" She was looking up at him with big eyes, and tugging playfully at the fine material on the sleeve of his jacket.

"Blame you? Of course I'd blame you. I told you to promise and I meant it. I'll not bother the trouble of surprising you in the future if you only plan to spoil it." He retorted with mock sternness. "But if you really can't be trusted there is always the option of a blindfold, if needs want" he offered softly.

"Well, it isn't a childish game—I've no want of a blindfold, I'm sure," she said with a slight clip, as if vexed that he didn't pander to it when she beseeched him smoothly. She added with less fervor, "I'll manage, but quickly now as the suspense is killing me," Emma replied moving her hands to cover her eyes, as if her hands instinctively knew her eyes would cheat if they were given any leeway.

"Yes, well –this way then," he guided through the hall his hand firm at her elbow as he helped her navigate.

The double doors were already open in advance, and everything in the ballroom was on full display. But he was sure she had not peeked because he was fairly certain she would be shocked by the display—the extravagance flickering in the glow of candlelight.

"You may look," he told her releasing her elbow as he said it.

"Oh, my! Wow." Emma froze feeling speechless for one of the few times in her life. "I—I don't know what to say. Is everything for me?" she asked.

"Yes. I thought of the desire you had to host a ball and the impracticality of it—but then I question what was to stop you from having a ball just to yourself—something all your own. The musicians are all from London for privacy reasons, hence my trip with the carriage earlier today. Thus, you are free to dance and enjoy yourself at your leisure,"

"A punch table? My very own?"

"Well, I know how much you like punch, and obviously it is of the non-alcoholic variety,"

"Thank you, that is very considerate, although I do recall suggesting that perhaps our birthdays might be the occasion for partaking," she smiled up at him with a silly expression she reserved for her own jokes.

"The Coles' party still fresh in my mind, I'll pretend I did not hear that," he echoed lightly.

"And you plan to dance with me?" she asked gleefully.

"Yes naturally. It would be rather little like a ball without dancing. Not to mention it would grossly undercut the other efforts I have made for authenticity," he said with a gesture around them.

"It is beautiful! Are those all chrysanthemums? They are glorious, and the vases are stunning-what a wonderful patina" she told him taking in the room.

"My mother's selection, I'm afraid I cannot claim credit but for asking the staff to dust them and remove them from their dormancy in storage, but the white chrysanthemums I did choose," he obliged.

"This is all too much," she smiled, "I am certainly the very picture of spoilt in this moment,"

"I am glad you like it," he told her.

"And what will we be dancing?" she asked looking at him expectantly.

"Ah, this string quartet is made up of some of the most talented musicians in London. They have agreed to play anything you would like, you will first select the music and the order and then we will dance," he explained.

"To anything? Even a waltz," she asked.

"I'm sure they can play a hundred different waltzes, waltzes are as popular as anything in London," he said.

"I meant you, would you mind a waltz? I know among the other dances which you find scarcely tolerable, waltzes are generally not your favourite," she replied.

"Even a waltz Emma, it is your special day; I'd dance every dance a waltz if it pleased you,"

"Even I am not that cruel," she teased back.

"You say that now, but you've not made your list of dances yet," he retorted.

"Thank you," she smiled fully at him, "I think this is the most thoughtful gift you've ever given me," she told him.

"But more thoughtful than lollipops?" He inquired with a teasing tone.

"After hearing the tale surrounding them I think perhaps not, but those weren't a birthday gift," she replied, and then she skipped over to the table that had various music options awaiting her selection.

"I love everything about this day," she said gleefully holding up one of her favourite pieces.

And it remain so long into the evening as she danced to her heart's content to each of her favourite songs and she felt that if he were really honest, George enjoyed himself just as much dancing more than a dozen dances with breaks for punch in between.

* * *

She had stayed up enjoying her birthday and as a result she slept later into the morning than was usual.

Her post had long arrived and she took her breakfast as quickly as was dignified in order to survey the contents of the letters sooner.

A card from the Miss. Bates' and a separate card from Miss. Fairfax.

Miss. Fairfax extended her regrets that she was unable to attend Emma's Birthday Dinner. She had been granted opportunity to meet with her good friends the Dixon's in London. Mr. Dixon was paying for the trip, so that Jane Fairfax might be reacquainted with his wife. As much as it saddened Jane to miss the dinner party, it was clearly an opportunity that was unlikely to happen again soon and one that she could not pass up.

 _She has declined, I Emma Wood—Knightley have invited Jane Fairfax to my birthday party and she has declined._ Emma exclaimed within her own thoughts the note in her hand flapping as if to keep time.

 _Well, that was fine._ Emma thought folding the note and placing it in her skirt pocket; they would get along quite alright without Miss. Fairfax. She was above the insult of it, she promised herself and then she determined to think no more about it. Afterall she had received confirmation from Frank Churchill, Mr.  & Mrs. Weston, Mrs. Bates and Miss. Bates, Harriett Smith & Mrs. Goddard and Mr. Elton. In fact, the symmetry in the numbers was all the better for it, Emma thought. A total party of ten, including herself and her husband, was far better than an offset party of eleven.

She happily carried on.

She had been humming a tune from the string quartet—it was still in her mind from a few days before and she had a tendency to hum quietly while focused. She was in full swing with her party set up when a letter arrived from Enscombe in the second post. She had got rather used to a fairly frequent correspondence and although Frank had not released the name of the women with whom his interest was kept, Emma felt she were getting closer to his confidence on that matter. Perhaps this letter would shed light on just such a matter.

She was still humming happily as she opened the letter.

 ** _July 20_ _th_ _1815_**

 _Emma, it is entirely regrettable._

 _In fact, I am so glad we have become close friends, because I am certain this would greatly offend a casual acquaintance. As we are friends, I know I can rely on you not to be too offended and while perhaps disappointed, you will not hold it against me as others might. I regret to inform you that I am not able to attend your birthday party; a matter has come up and must remain close to my aunt. Her sickness prevails more than usual and I find I must accompany her, first to London and then to Bath to take the waters there. You'll have a birthday gift from me the next time I see you, I swear it._

 _Until then,_

 ** _Frank Churchill_**

That put so much more the damper on her spirits than Jane Fairfax's rejecting an invitation ever could.

Oh and she couldn't rationalize it away either. Since an unsymmetrical party of nine was far worse than an evenly matched party of ten. Nine! What a pity!

She couldn't help feeling sorry for herself. It almost felt as if everything was going awry—what next? How long would it be before Mrs. Goddard and Harriet or Mr. Elton would declare themselves unable to attend with a myriad of pale excuses?

She decided to ride to Weston's to confirm they were still planning on attending. It made for good practice as well as she had been trying to make an effort to improve on her riding skills.

As she went it all she could think about was the pessimistic thought, ' _Exactly how bad would it appear to have all of her guests back out of her birthday dinner?'_

"Yes, my dear, Mr. Weston and I are very much attending—we've looked forward to nothing else since your invitation arrived. And it is so unfortunate, I'm sure you've heard that Frank may not attend as he needs to be near his aunt. Mr. Weston had a letter about it just this morning, he is naturally disappointed, but still very much looking forward to your birthday party—it is bound to lift his spirits," Mrs. Weston told her, sighs and inflections where they ought be as she worked to sooth Emma's disappointment. "But no one can deny, it is so unfortunate about Frank,"

Emma fought an exasperated sigh she still had his note in her skirt pocket—though she thought of burning it earlier out of sheer frustration. Who backed out of an invitation to a birthday party?—yet she knew she would have done the same for her own father had he taken ill after she had agreed to attend something or another. It must have been just the same for Frank, except she had understood for Mrs. Weston at other times that it may have been more obligation than affection that informed his choice.

"And I have also a note from Jane," Emma told her, explaining the situation that Jane had relied in her note.

' _But at least Jane had not accepted and then changed her mind_ ,' Emma thought bitterly before she pushed the thought out of her mind.

"And it is such a shame that Jane is unable to attend, but how nice it is that she is afforded the opportunity to travel. I'm sure it is a luxury that will be less common now that she is no longer with the Campbells. I think it right that she accept the opportunity while she has the chance." Mrs. Weston assured.

"Yes, I agree," Emma said flatly.

* * *

The party had not gone the way she had imaged and like all things one looks forward to, it was over and done it seemed in the blink of an eye. She wasn't fully sure if she ought be relieved it was over or disappointed. If anything she wanted a do-over, she wanted to predict the failings and fix them.

She let out a sigh that she had been holding in, "Was it as horrible as I imagine it was thinking over it again now?"

"Don't be dramatic Emma, I don't think anything is ever as bad as your imagination can conjure and in my opinion, the evening was fine," he offered from his place opposite her.

"Were people bored, do you imagine they were? I couldn't help but think they must have been when Miss. Bates launched into that longwinded account of when the previous rector came to Highbury. It seemed rather insulting, since Mr. Elton had only mentioned him in passing, and that it is his predecessor—what should Mr. Elton have thought? Miss. Bates' high praise of the man made one almost think that she does not so much favour the style of the more youthful mister Elton. And oh how she wore on about Mr. Geoffrey with his sage tone and his years of wisdom, I did not know fully what to do with myself—should I have put a stop to it by interrupting? Or would interrupting have proven a worse choice as the hostess? Was it as terrible as I imagine?—do you think people were bored or worse insulted? Because I think—"

"Emma, if you are to ask questions of me, you need permit me the space to answer them—at present even with an economy with words a person is not able to slip a word in edgewise," he told her, cutting in.

She took a deep breath and relaxed into the mattress, pressing her feet against his calf gently. "Sorry, I do an uncanny impression of Miss. Bates when I am flustered," she offered, relinquishing her death grip on her side of the blanket at the same time.

"It was not as bad as you think. I do think Mr. Elton understood that Miss. Bates was merely looking to make the connection—a topic of mutual interest for discussion sake. I took her praise as to the role of a vicar in general, not to be tied to a singular person. If nothing else, he seems an understanding sort of person; I do not think he felt pricked by any of it,"

"Oh, well that is good," she breathed out again, wriggling slightly in an attempt to become more comfortable. "What do you think of the idea of he and Harriet together? They were rather chatty at tea,"

"Oh, you would Emma," he responded dryly without a spec of humour in his tone. "I would not make something of nothing—for one, who else had he to talk with? Miss. Bates? And given the option Harriet is very much a harmless option, more interesting in her topics of discussion and more concise, which as you know is not Miss. Bates' greatest strength. All that in mind, do not imagine them paired off just yet, as it reminds me of my second point, which is the fact that it is widely known that Mr. Elton is looking for a wife to bring with her an income. I have heard it said that he hopes for a figure in the range of £30,000 and that he will not settle for less than £20,000,"

"From who have you heard it?" Emma challenged,

"As I have said it is widely known," he told her, refusing to indulge her for it had been Mr. Cole who he had heard it from and he knew Emma's dislike would colour her judgement of the facts themselves.

"Really! Widely known? Well, I have not heard it said, it must not be so widely known if it has not been upon Ms. Bates' lips" she replied with a light clip.

There was a vacant pause as her husband made no attempt to re-engage the matter.

"But surely if he were to fall in love," she postulated.

"Emma, when Mr. Elton takes a wife, if it is love at all it will have to have an income of £20,000 to match,"

"I do so badly want to see Harriet married well," Emma hummed, "what do you think of Harriet and Frank Churchill," she asked trying to imagine it herself.

"I heard it said he is in love with unnamed lady, or have you reason to think that that has changed?" he asked her.

For once he didn't seem to have bristled with the mention of Frank's name.

"Well, she is still unnamed—and yes, I have no reason to think that anything has changed, but I have it from him that his aunt would not approve of the match, perhaps she would approve of Harriet," Emma

"Harriet Smith, the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with very likely no settled provision at all—Emma, I know that you are fond of her but Dowager Churchill is not likely to think the same. The Churchill family would intend for him a woman with means and title—someone known, someone with prominent connections. A Harriet Smith, although pretty and charming in her own right would not fare any better with their ilk than this unnamed love interest,"

"I think you still hold out hope for Mr. Martin," she offered with a sigh, turning her back to him.

He reached across and pulled her to him, so that her back was against his chest and his arms encircled her waist, "Of course I do, he is a good man and I know how much the man cared for her, and I regret entirely that I must use the past tense, for I do not know how he now feels- having been rejected. Would he still have a mind to marry her, I would support the match in a heartbeat—but I know we disagree, so I will not press the matter,"

She almost wanted to refute what he had said, but he had spoken so softly and then tenderly kissed the top of her head bidding her a good sleep—she didn't have the heart to disturb the moment.

* * *

There you have it, Chapter 16 done and dusted! As always, review and tell me what you think, want to see or anything you feel like sharing!


	17. A Realization

**Chapter 17**

A Realization

* * *

Emma held her teacup more carefully than normal, she had not broken a cup or saucer since childhood, but she knew she was holding their finest and felt the significance of it just the same.

Miss Bates had excused herself to go check on her mother who was said to be altogether well in health but napping.

"Again I am very sorry I could not attend," Jane offered again, which marked her third and Emma dearly hoped final apology.

"All is forgiven; I have never traveled for leisure but I am sure if a dear friend was near and it meant forgoing a party to make the trip to visit them, I think I would do it under the right circumstances," Emma admitted, mainly wishing to put an end to the profuseness of Jane's apologies. "Now tell me about your trip to London," Emma offered a new topic of conversation –with the potential to be the most interesting topic the Bates house had seen in many years—for obvious reasons.

"Oh it was very nice," Jane beamed. "Mr. Dixon sent his carriage, I was expecting that—but what I was not expecting was that he and my dear friend would take the trip from London to Highbury so that I would have company the entire way to London. My friend suggested that she wished to take the country air and enjoy the bucolic landscapes but I am overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it. "

"Oh yes. How kind, yes they do seem to be very kind creatures these Dixons and Campbells," Emma agreed, "As I have never been outside of Highbury and the surrounding county, you'll naturally enlighten me with the other things you did or saw," she inquired, sipping her tea while Jane paused.

"Well, I did see one person that I am told is in your acquaintance," Jane offered shyly, the tone piqued Emma's interest and drew her to look more closely at the young women sitting across from her.

Emma inspected her in greater detail, if she was asked to attest to it by the magistrate himself she would swear to it that Jane Fairfax was blushing.

"To whom are you referring," Emma asked lowering her teacup to rest on her saucer—preparing herself to take in every word Jane said—as she had a certainty that it was sure to prove interesting.

"Frank Churchill," Jane told her, and yes the pink of her cheeks still stood out against her warm olive complexion. Jane didn't even have the countenance to blush readily. Emma's own mind began to race to solve for it—to explain it in some way for something must have caused her feelings of mortification—Emma came to a stop full stop.

Emma then felt her own mortification rise, pulling tightly in her throat. She had not experienced any kind of apprehension like it before, and certainly never socially—for she had been gifted from an early age with always knowing exactly what to say. But it was undeniable that she felt it now— she knew unconsciously that the feeling was certainly because she had no wish to speak out what she was now required to speak out.

There was no delicate way to warn Jane off of what Emma believed she was trying to say.

"Whatever you have heard, it is inaccurate. Although I do not know your source, they have spoken a falsehood. I am a friend of Frank Churchill but that is where it ends. I love my husband and Frank Churchill is merely the stepson of one of my greatest friends. If someone has insinuated differently, which would account for the colour in your cheeks—I would ask that you count it as false testimony that does not merit repeating." Emma spoke curtly; for she found herself growing more angry about the idea the longer she continued talking. She would reflect later that her upset was not at Jane, which may have been misconstrued at the time but at the source of such gossip instead.

Jane looked positively sick, her face wilted and her mouth trembling as if she was uneasy to speak.

"It is —is it—it is just that I—" she shook her head, "No, what I mean to say is that I am sorry but you misunderstand. I was not meaning to imply anything but friendship. If I blush it is only because –only because—well he is—It is only because I found him to be a very handsome gentleman." She finished, coughing and clearing her throat nervously at every pause and blunder. The finale had her pressing her hands against her bright red cheeks.

How impossibly awkward.

Emma knew it was her doing. It was her fault—her very nature of speculating and drawing conclusions and worst speaking out before she had fully thought it through. How embarrassing, and what a blunder. She was so thankful that no one else was near to hear it.

"Thank you, for clearing the matter. I am sorry—I overreacted and I have embarrassed myself badly. " She pressed her thumbnail against her other wrist sharply. Oh, how she had blundered, there was no prescribed recovery. She wished to ask Mrs. Weston her former governess but sadly it would not have helped—her former governess would not have a solution even if it were possible to ask because other people hadn't placed themselves in situations like this before. What did one do when they stumbled into them? Did one try to end the conversation with an excuse of somewhere else to be, or put it behind with the offering of another topic? Press on ahead; pretending as if nothing had happened? Everything in her wished to say, _"Thank you for the tea, I will visit next week at the usual time if it is agreeable to you and your aunt,"_

Emma could not bring herself to excuse herself. It was the opposite action of her usual fortitude and she hated the notion of being cowed into anything.

"Then you would have met his aunt?" Emma asked.

"Uh—his aunt?" Jane asked. Emma nearly huffed in exasperation. Leave it to Jane to try to spoil Emma's lofty attempt at recovery. Although it wouldn't have been intentional, no she was likely just surprised, as Jane had likely expected that Emma would excuse herself, saving them both the humiliation of carrying on in conversation.

"Yes, his Aunt—Lady Josephine Churchill,"

"No, she was not there," Jane told her, "Although the first time we saw him in London, it was a dinner party with many people, friends of Campbells and connections of the younger variety –it is possible that that was why she was not there," Jane offered.

"The first time? You saw him another occasion as well?" Emma asked.

"Yes, he was also at the apartment that the Dixon's were letting; he came there for supper and games on the last day," she acknowledged.

"I see, maybe she is not much for games. I think she is a stern sort—at least that is what I gather and sickly—Frank Churchill is apparently often called away in duty to his aunt,"

"Yes, I think it means he is a good sort of person that he is so caring over his aunt," Jane agreed.

"And does he know Mr. Dixon well?" Emma asked, trying to account for the time Frank had spent in London with them when she knew he was primarily supposed to be looking after his aunt, and failing that he had given his word to be at her birthday party. She wanted to figure it out, as from Jane's testimony it seemed he was not with his aunt, at least not with a dependable constancy, his sole reason for eluding her birthday party.

"I think he must, for I know that he does not know my friend Charlotte well," Jane concurred.

Emma nodded, and silently considered the more practical reasoning behind it.

Although Emma felt she had recovered as best one can from her blunder, ultimately the goodbyes brought both young women immense relief.

* * *

"It was horrendous," Emma stated.

"It couldn't have been that bad. As I've told you before Emma— I'll not have you rail on about your teas with the Bates'. If you do not wish to go, then do not go but do not go only to recount the tale of woe and misery to me afterward"

"But I haven't explained the horrible part yet, and it has nothing to do with Miss. Bates but Jane Fairfax, oh I blundered so badly," Emma hissed out.

"Let yourself off the hook on this occasion, come and listen, I have a letter from Brunswick Square, John and Isabella are addressing us both. I had a feeling it might please you to know that I was eager to know the contents but that I did not open it, though it sat temptingly on my desk all this morning," he told her.

Emma froze. "I've not heard a single word from Isabella, not since we exchanged harsh words last time, I hardly even saw her at the church after the wedding ceremony, I believe they left very quickly afterward," she admitted.

"Well, now you have a letter," he offered holding the letter out towards her so she could see it tangibly.

"It is addressed to both of _us_ , it couldn't really be said that _I_ have a letter," Emma offered her tone betraying the slight pout that was veiled enough to avoid being displayed on her lips.

"Do you want me to read it to you, or would you like to read it to me?" he asked her, ignoring her statement.

She sighed, "Who has penned it? If it is in Isabella's hand I will read it to you and if it is in John's—I don't know how the two of you can be brothers— you have such a neat, near-perfect script and his handwriting is so wild and unruly," Emma reflected,

"Yes, if it is in John's I will read it— but in his defense, John writes far faster than I, letters take me such a tremendous amount of time. I think he takes after our father, he could hardly spare the time to blot the letter before posting it." He told her opening the letter,

"Whose is it?" Emma asked leaning near him, and closer to the back of the couch in an attempt to inspect it herself.

"Ah, John's!" he told her.

"I thought as much," she told him succinctly, moving to sit on the couch beside him, thinking privately that Isabella was inevitably far too proud to be the first to break the silence that had hung between them some many months.

" _Dear George and Emma_ ," he began, flicking his eyes to hers for a brief moment.

"Yes," she said urging him to continue with the excited tone of her voice.

He just sat there holding the letter and smiling at her with a boyish grin.

"What?" she asked him, nearly wanting to pull the letter from his hands in impatience, John's handwriting or not.

"Oh nothing, I just noticed how much I like the way our names sound when read aloud," he offered,

She laughed, pushing him gently at the lapel with the palm of her hand "And I just noticed how much I like hearing the letter read as promised without undue anticipation," she retaliated teasingly.

"As you wish _,-We are excited to announce that you are once again uncle and aunt. Little Emma was born just this morning, missing her namesakes' birthday by just over a week._ " he continued.

Emma felt she could hardly breathe.

" _Both Isabella and the baby are in good health and we would like to receive you both as visitors as soon as your schedules. We would like Emma to be the Godmother as she has for each of the other children—_ "

"How could she?" Emma cried out cutting him off, without much thought and frantically wiping the errant tears away as quickly as she was able with just her fingertips. She was never prepared enough for tears as to have a handkerchief in her dress pocket.

She stood quickly; she had felt too agitated to sit a moment longer.

She was halfway to the door when he caught her, "How could she what?" he asked, confusion etched on his face and then concern as he saw her tears. "What is wrong, Emma?" he demanded.

"How could she do this to me?" she repeated, motioning in a wide circle with her arms as if the reiteration made everything clear.

"Do what?" He echoed, trying very hard not to allow the repetition to vex him.

"This." She replied insistently.

"This?" He echoed.

"This," she repeated with more emphasis in her tone, she truly felt at a loss for words, though some part of her worried that she would spew them all out all at once like Ms. Bates if she started. At the thought of Ms. Bates' verboseness, she cringed and settled on saying little but motioning to the letter as means of better description.

"This," he added looking down at the letter for some form of a clue. "Baby Emma?" he asked.

"Yes, Baby Emma," she repeated emphatically, he was such an intelligent man, how did the implications of this escape him? She felt as if all her vigor was zapped the very moment she spoke it out. Tears grew in volume and her hands began wiping the tears that slipped free as she spoke the words.

"I don't understand," he said as gently as he could, producing his handkerchief so that he could offer it to her.

Oh, heavens she would have to explain it now, even in his brilliance he didn't perceive the ramifications of the matter and she would have no choice but to make it clear. "She is looking to use this to bend me—using this to try to force me to accept them back into my good graces! I never knew her to have such manipulative intentions. She thinks that she simply has to go about naming her child after me and that it will solve this—" she gesticulated wildly with her hands, "I did not even know she was with child! She has made no attempts to make anything right between us, and now this! I have never been so outraged—no it is more of a wounding than that word implies, perhaps it is better to say I have never felt so offended in my life. How dare she!"

"Emma, they have requested that you be the Godmother as you are for Henry, Isabella, and George and that we attend the christening," he tried to reassure her.

"That is not all it is! It is her way of trying to avoid apologizing and to force everything to appear as normal," she contended.

"Emma, don't make it bigger than it is, and certainly don't twist their motives."

"You don't understand," she insisted again,

"Well, they already have a son George, what do you mean I don't understand?"

"No, it is the timing of everything," she urged. "It is the fact that nothing has been made right, this is not the way it should be. Nothing has been reconciled, my sister has not written me to ask for my forgiveness, and there has been no attempt to make things right. And now they want to sweep it under the rug, they want to hide the problem and just gloss over it by naming their next child after me. I should feel flattered but I can't help but feel the punch of it! The sheer brass of it—the absurdity—the crassness—I'll not go, I can't, I'll—"

He cut her off, "Emma stop, you are blowing this out of proportion," he insisted. "We must go,"

"But Isabella does not deserve it," she pleaded with him, crying out and a fresh stream of tears. She could admit it, she was feeling very sorry for herself, and her own husband would not take her side in this but instead rose to Isabella's defense. Everyone always did, since her earliest memories, it was as if figures in her life constantly took Isabella's side. It was as if they understood Emma to be capable and resilient and Isabella to be defenseless or incapable in some way.

"Do not forget that it is our newest niece we will be meeting, this is not only about John and Isabella—the picture is much greater than that. Our nieces and nephews will grow up and someday you will regret decisions made with rashness. I think as you cool down you will also realize that things are not fully as you imagine them to be in regards to Isabella's motives."

"I do not wish to go on these terms, with everything as it is between Isabella and me!" she explained, feeling it be imperative that he understood her.

"Maybe not, but you will regret the decision in time," he told her, "As the saying goes, 'don't cut off your nose to spite your face',"

She didn't say anything, just continued to cry and after a short while when she pulled at her arm wishing to leave the room she felt no resistance from him.

She felt weary and melancholy the remainder of the day and eventually told her maid she did not feel well and took the liberty of going to bed before supper.

* * *

"Emma, stop. You are asleep," she heard him vaguely but there was a much louder noise interfering with her hearing. It sounded like the screeching of an animal or something frightened.

"Emma, stop shrieking and thrashing—you are alright, I'm here with you," he insisted and after a few lagging seconds, the sound stopped.

She forced her eyes open, confronted by the darkness and the fact that he had her arms arrested against her sides—almost in a bear hug. Her eyes widened in surprise and in an effort to take in the dim lightroom.

It was almost evidence of the miraculous but it was as if the moment she saw him there with her and that he was holding still and safe, it felt to her that every semblance of fear fell away. None of it real, she was here safe in his arms.

"You were thrashing wildly, what were you dreaming of? Was it a nightmare? You haven't injured yourself anywhere, have you? How about your hand? I thought for sure you might have, you threw your fist against the headboard rather violently." His fingers moved to inspect her right hand, "Nothing is in pain?" he then asked after pressing his own along hers so that they almost danced over each of her fingers, applying the slightest of pressure and observing her reaction.

Her mouth opened feeling dry, her words were sure to sound hoarse, "Why George, if you wish me to answer any question, you'll have to permit me a pause so that I might get the answer out, at present you have rattled them off in such quick succession that it is impossible to get a word in edgewise," she offered with a gentle smile, trying to the best of her memory to paraphrase his words to her in the past and to preserve his dry but teasing tone.

"You startled me," he admitted, pulling the hand he still held to his lip to kiss it. "But, by your reaction, I can assume you are not injured," he placed her hand gently back against her side and made a motion to pull away from her.

"Don't, I'm sorry to have teased you, it was unkind as I didn't reflect on the fact that you would have been rather startled by everything. I like having you near me, I feel so safe in your arms like this," she confided.

"What was the dream about?" he asked pulling her closer again, possibly closer than before and shifting her slightly. As he did so his face was impossibly close to her for a few long moments, her heart sped up and she could feel it as if it were a bird trapped beneath her ribcage. Though it must have been a fleeting moment, it felt to her that it stretched on impossibly extended as time always does when laced with anticipation. She thought he was going to kiss her; and when he did not, he instead shifted her so that her head was tucked just beneath his chin.

"I honestly don't recall very much at all," her head felt so muddled if she had remembered anything after waking, she certainly did not recall it now. In fact, she was slightly surprised she was able to wittingly answer his question at all, for she was certain her heart still raced from the anticipation of what did not transpire. Though her cheeks were hidden in the darkness, her tendency to ramble belayed her residual nervousness, "Yes, I recall very little but your mother was not in it or at least I don't think she was. I do remember I was in a building and there were others with me but beyond that, I don't remember"

"My mother?"

She inhaled little too sharply, remembering she hadn't said anything about those dreams that seemed so constant but also so long ago now. "It was when I first came here, amidst dreams of my sister and father, I also had a few dreams about your mother, she didn't like me or us…or perhaps it is better to say she think not think well of our arrangement,"

He reeled back sharply then, almost as if she had burnt him.

"It was not real—it was not _really_ your mother, I've never met her so I cannot speak to the figure's physical likeness to your mother but I am very certain there aren't such things as ghosts," she told him confidently trying to reassure him of whatever it was that disturbed him so. "There is a natural explanation, I had previously been looking at the pictures in the hall and wondering about her, I think my mind just conjured up a—"

"It's alright Emma, you needn't explain. Let's try to go back to sleep" he told her.

* * *

Hey guys!

I am sorry this update took longer than some of you would have liked. Here it is. Thank you so much to the reviewer that gave me a ton of feedback and editing suggestions. I LOVE that! Please don't hesitate to let me know about corrections or your own thoughts or feelings on the story.

I used Grammarly for the first time, I really liked it and I'm going to run chapters through there from now on. I'll also run some older chapters through that system because it is SO easy! If you are a writer and you haven't used it, I strongly recommend!

Um, for anyone that spotted it, I flipped the birth order for George and Emma. In the book I believe John and Isabella's Emma is older than baby George but I switched it for effect and the purposes of my plot.

I think that is all! Thanks again to all the incredible reviewers! It might seem trite but It honestly keeps me writing, work is busy and sometime it is simply a review that comes in that reminds me to write for 20 or 30 minutes that day.

Until next time,

PrettyPet


	18. Baby Knightley

The reviewer that pointed out the inconsistency with Emma not traveling thanks! I had messed it up, obviously, Emma has been to London for those events you mentioned and she also knew the details of Brunswick Square and was adamant about not living there for size and personal space reasons in the early chapters of this story. So clearly she would have needed to have visited at least once. Good catch, I lost the plot for a moment there! I have gone back in to fix that. Basically, it now reads that Emma has never traveled for leisure. I imagine that there were times where she was able to travel for family reasons, short 2-3 day trips. I also imagine Mr. Woodhouse would have had a stipulation, no additional exposure to the London air, carriage to the house, no windows, no drafts, no germ riddled visitors. In this way any travel would be very mundane—no parties or sightseeing but practical, christening ceremonies or staying at home with Isabella. I hope that fixes things!

A few have wondered why Emma cannot live alone—obviously, she has money, why can she just live in Highbury? This boils down to the social customs and norms of her timeframe. Women had no agency, they were controlled (protected) by their father, then brother and then husband. Not marrying was seen as social suicide and living alone as an unmarried woman just didn't happen. Basically, unless you were a widow, you just didn't live alone—even widows would often live with their next of kin. It was seen a completely out of the question, women couldn't do their own banking or handle their own affairs in the way a young man could. For these reasons, Emma would either need to move in with relations or get married. This is explained in the conversation with Mr. Knightley and is accurate to the era and culture of the day.

Oh and the reviewer that reviewed about ch.2! Yes, I like your idea as well. In this one, I intentionally had Emma work within her skills of manipulation—she has always been able to get her way and she uses that in this situation as well. This also produces the tension between the two, and also Emma's insecurity in a way—would he have married her if she had not manipulated him into it? Does he regret it and so on.

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

Baby Knightley

A clip from the novel Emma "Emma felt as if they were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby:

"What a comfort it is that we think alike about our nephews and nieces! As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."

"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike."

– Jane Austen

* * *

"I am glad you both are here," John told him, opening the door to his small study. It was hardly larger than one of the kitchen pantries at Donwell and the large desk John had against the wall dwarfed the small space even more.

"It is good to be here, but you must know Emma took a good deal of convincing, she is not happy with how things have played out with Isabella," George explained, she had pouted a good part of the carriage ride but for the time she spent snoring quietly against his shoulder.

"George, she is not the only one displeased by how things have played out; imagine how Isabella has felt these long months, not a single word from her sister, she had such low spirits the entire time of her confinement and I can't help but think the feuding between her and her sister are to blame. "

"You'll not place that squarely on Emma," George warned his brother.

"Not solely, but I cannot deny the difference in her confinement this time than in the last time when Emma sat with her as a companion to her. You'll remember those times; you were the one who devised the plan. You were the one who provided a solution that would allow Emma to be near Isabella without having to negotiate with Mr. Woodhouse or to be very far from her father so she might visit him during Isabella's napping hour. And it was you after all who was willing to stay at Hartfield and constantly so in order to tend to Mr. Woodhouse's every malaise, whim, and fancy, allowing Emma the ability to stay with Isabella at the main guest house at Donwell,"

"Ah, so you admit it yourself brother, there is more than one variable in the equation. Maybe it was Donwell that Isabella missed—it is the grandest place in all the world I dare say, I'd not fault her for it—you might have merely asked it, you know that brother. Or if not Donwell, then perhaps the country lanes for gentle walking, the freshness of country air perhaps? I dare say there is nothing quite as powerful as the London air to make one feel despondent, Mr. Woodhouse always spoke at length at its injuriousness." George tossed back to his brother.

"Say what you might George, you know as well as I there is tension between the two sisters and that it is not good for either party to be at odds in this way. You are also keenly aware of the role you have played in fostering some of this friction between the two sisters, had you not interfered Emma would be happily living in London and she would have been able to be with Isabella during this confinement. "

George laughed, slightly more acerbic that he would have intended had he really thought his actions through when it came to defending Emma he had very little restraint.

"She is happy at Donwell," he volleyed back curtly.

"Well, I suppose that is good; I would not like to hear it said that both Knightley women were in low spirits—one might start to speculate that it was a curse that came with the inheritance of the name by way of marriage." An unflattering chuckle accompanied the statement, jaded and almost forced sounding. The allusion was not lost on George. "Oh, but you'll have to let Emma know that you will have to be satisfied with a single guest room while you stay in our home. I'll not spare you another guest room for the sake of Emma's vanity or entertain any sort of charade on your behalf—and if Emma has a problem with it then she might sleep in the nursery on the nurse's cot near the children." John said sternly, obviously riled up in defense of his wife—George was rather certain this was the figure that most saw when they met John Knightley, London lawyer.

"I'm sure Emma wouldn't have it any other way," George said, unconcerned. "It is our current arrangement at Donwell as well; there is a funny story to it," George offered, tailing off for effect and hoping the story would change the mood in the small office, which at present was rather stifling.

"Your arrangement, " John reflected, "I had half hoped that the two of you would be passed that, but how you present it now, in your own words, suggests to me that it is as contrived as it has ever been,"

"Oh stop trying to sound so foreboding!" George began, with an upbeat tone to his voice that suggested he did not want to fight about it. "I am trying to regale you with a humorous tale that will allow us to put aside our differences, but I'll only continue if you can swear to it that you'll put down the sword, and stop trying to pierce me out of some twisted sense of vengeance," George told him flatly.

"Very well, we will quarrel no more about it, hopefully, this trip will be one of reconciliation," John agreed, "First, how about a drink in toast to your return?"

"I would not turn it down." George agreed.

* * *

John's baritone laughter broke out again, "Your joking," he made out barely against the peals of laughter.

"Not in the slightest," George chuckled, laughing at his brother more than anything.

"Inflating then, enhancing the story with exaggeration for effect,"

"The tale needs no exaggeration," George told him with mirth.

John laughed again taking another sip of his drink.

"You are telling me that you woke startled thinking that someone was bringing harm to another person?"

"Yes, and as I got nearer, the sound was coming from Emma's room but at the same point I was struck with the notion that the shrieking seemed less the cries of injury and more the laughter of madness, and words cannot fully do justice to the mixture of absurdity and relief I felt seeing her pinned by Virgil being ferociously licked and rendered almost completely immobile,"

"And somehow in the midst of all that you convinced her to let you stand in as her lap dog, and you are sure you do not want a career in Law—your powers of persuasion as paramount as they are?" John laughed again, this time sounding a little forced.

"It wasn't like that,"

"It wasn't? Well, what was it like then?" John asked.

"I don't fully recall it, but it wasn't like you suggest, I did not manipulate her or the situation. In the first few months of our marriage, I wanted to allow her as much space as possible. Her own room, freedom to decorate, and to make her own plans as she might have done at Hartfield and I had assumed she would appreciate it. Yet, I was presented with the facts that evening, that she was cold and lonely and you know as well as I how much I care for her, and here she is my wife and I'd felt I'd been neglectful. I saw it as a good solution to the problems presented, and still do,"

"Well, as the French say 'Comme on fait son lit on se couche' or the English 'As the bed has been left, and so must you sleep in it," John offered, raising his glass as if to give a mock toast, "So I'll say nothing more about it and I'll let you sleep in it the way you see fit,"

George nodded, but still felt the niggling feeling of annoyance over how his brother had cast the situation.

* * *

The Knightley brothers were laughing, it could be heard from where she sat in the living room, alone and holding a book so she would not seem overly circumspect. The book really wouldn't fool anyone who knew her well, John maybe but certainly not George or Isabella. They would know she was still at the beginning of the book, and despite having skipped a few pages had not yet past her own age worth in page numbers.

Hearing the brothers laugh at first made her smile, John had a ridiculous sounding laugh and the thin walls did nothing to contain it. After a few outbursts, something shifted in her and then the laughter provoked some odd form of jealousy, her own sister was merely down the hall and up the stairs and yet they had hardly talked since Emma's arrival earlier in the day.

John had ushered everyone out rather hastily after Emma had said hello and asked after how Isabella was feeling. John had claimed that Isabella had not slept well and needed to be certain she was getting enough rest by order from their doctor.

Emma placed the book down on the couch, struggling to decide between rousing Isabella or playing with the children. The second option seemed altogether more inviting but then she thought back on George's words before they had left Donwell. He had talked about how it was completely unnecessary for the feud to drag on beyond this trip. He told her specifically that he while he did not believe that the problem was entirely her fault, that he would be tremendously proud of her if she were able to help resolve things with Isabella and bring about resolution this trip.

She had at first pouted; wanting to know what percentage of blame his levied upon her, but then imagined the face he sported so finely when he was proud of her. Although there would never be a time where she had taken in enough of that face, with a proud glow upon it, she had seen it enough times to know its look by heart, his eyes lit up and he looked so sincere as he beamed at her. And then he would look at her as if she was the best thing in the entire world—who had never done a thing wrong in her entire life—it seemed almost an eternity since he had last looked at her like that, with praise on his lips and satisfaction written across his face.

Yes, she would do almost anything to see that expression from him—it had been far too long.

Mustering up the courage to do it was more difficult than she expected it to be. Entering into Isabella's room, knowing she would need to be the first to apologize in order to resolve anything. It was likely birth order that instituted it, the younger always was in some way subservient to the older, it was how they were accustomed from a young age.

She hoped to get it over with and set the groundwork for future encounters.

At her first attempt at an apology, Isabella was almost stiff and unwilling to receive any words from her.

She persisted.

"I never intended to degrade the offer that you and John made me, I know that you meant well by it," Emma told her.

"You can't know how deeply it hurt us," Isabella said.

"I am sorry. And I am sorry that our fighting prevented me from sitting with you these recent weeks,"

"Yes, you and I both—I was impossibly lonely, John working and much of his energy applied there, it seems there is always ever so much required of him by his job but that is as it must be. But to be stuck at home with the nursemaid and the children—honestly, it is nearly enough to make a person crazy," Isabella admitted. "I wished a hundred times that you would be here—that you would have chosen London as your home instead of Highbury,"

"Yes, but if things were right between us, my living in Highbury should not have meant that I could not travel to visit you, George wouldn't deny me a thing like that. He would probably even allow me to take a carriage for something as wasteful as a day trip to London if I asked it of him," Emma remarked proudly.

Isabella started weeping, "This time Emma I had really wished you would be here— I hadn't been healthy going into everything. I was afflicted with lethargy and sadness at various moments. Nothing predictable, just emotions and feeling overwrought at a moment's notice—it should not have been a surprise that the birth was also strenuous. The doctor at one moment thought we might lose dear little Emma and at another that I might perish for I lost a deal of blood. It was all very frightening and surreal. In the midst of it, I thought of my loved ones and more than anything I thought about you Emma because we had not spoken since your wedding, and before that our last words were not kind or loving. More than anything I did not wish to leave things that way. You can't imagine how relieved I was to learn that baby Emma would be alright and that the doctor felt I would be fully recovered,"

"I did not know, the note from John did not explain the circumstances," Emma insisted, her shock apparent in her tone and face.

"Of course, we did not want to worry you needlessly—the doctor has me on a sleeping regime, eating liver and taking beef teas every day, but aside from that I do not feel any worse than I have after the other children," Isabella assured.

Emma shuddered at the thought of liver.

"I am so sorry, it was childish—I see that now, promise me we will never let anything like this come between us again?"

"We shan't," Isabella replied. "The regime for sleeping is that I must sleep two hours for every hour I am awake, unfortunately it means I should try to sleep again now," Isabella told her, "But be sure to spend as much time as you wish with Baby Emma, knowing you, I know you'll not let the nursemaid keep her all to herself,"

"Have a good rest, I will go find them and I'll be certain to get my fair share of attention from my namesake," Emma insisted.

* * *

"I thought I might find you with her," George told as he stood in the entryway to the living room.

"Yes, she decided to take a reprieve from the nursery to spend time with her favourite aunt," Emma acknowledged.

"I suppose that falls to you by default in the same way I win the title of best uncle," George remarked dryly.

Emma for her part ignored him, "I like this room better than the nursery, there is a good deal more light and my father always said sunlight was the best thing for babies, but the air was not, so one must find the better windows in the house and spend time there often while the sun was up," Emma told him, holding little Emma as she rocked gently in the sunbeams.

"She seems happy enough," George commented,

"She is charming and delightful, exactly as her aunt," Emma added with a silly look just show the teasing spirit behind her words.

"Yes, she is," he remarked in agreeance.

"Would you like to hold her?"

"Only once I'm sitting," he told her, "she seems so tiny, and fragile—" he stated.

"Oh hush, you'll not damage her, you're far too capable for that but if you'll sit I will place her in your arms," she told him.

He sat there patiently waiting, and she then sat on the couch beside him, sitting close and leaning in even closer in order to make the swap without causing any commotion for baby Emma.

Once he was settled holding the baby, which appeared a large ball of swaddling with a head and one fist pressed against her cheek, Emma leaned back and inspected the scene.

She smiled then, "I dare say she has the Knightley nose," she said this looking between the two and the gently traced her finger along the baby's nose; she followed it up by immediately tracing the same line along George's own. "Yes, the very same it is uncanny,"

"And mouth," George reflected almost as a reflex as if he were merely pointing it out as a fact as if he didn't know where that would lead her. He couldn't know because he had not known her thoughts the past few weeks or how transfixing she found his mouth in recent days.

Emma looked at him, "The lower lip certainly," she said taking her hand a tracing outer edge of his lower lip line.

Everything but her mind wanted to trace it back the other way along the same line to repeat the sensation it stirred beneath her fingertips.

Instead, she dropped her eyes and her hand to the little baby and gently repeated the motion.

"But certainly the Woodhouse cheekbones," she told him,

"Had I a free hand I would confirm the comparison," he told her, and she wouldn't bring herself to look at him. She felt she would blush if she did, but how she wished he was more confident in cradling the child. She had seen the nursemaid was able to hold the baby in one hand while helping little George with something with the other. He, on the other hand very much required both as he held the baby with both arms looped together in a bassinet shape.

"She is so adorable and so small and just look at those eyelashes, my word! I think she might also have the Knightley eyelashes but I'll not try to pet them or yours," Emma told him, allowing for humour in the place of the shyness she was feeling.

He chuckled, she smiled, pleased to hear the sound from him, "It is probably for the best, one of us might be blinded in the attempt. Isn't that right little Emma?" he said speaking to the baby then.

"But her eyes, well they are just as bright as her aunt's" George reflected, at the closer inspection. "A gorgeous shade of cerulean blue—"

"Oh, George, all babies are born with blue eyes—they change over time as the baby grows, it is unlikely they will remain this colour. Isabella has brown eyes, your brother's eyes are hazel, not the same shade as your eyes mind- but hazel none the less. All that to say it is unlikely."

"Really, you think John and I have different eye colour? I always thought it was near enough the same, the Knightley unremarkable, brackish green hue,"

"They aren't unremarkable, I've always thought your eyes were one of your better features. And no, you and your brother do not have the same shade. You have a different shade entirely—any with different freckles of pigmentation. You see, you have grey flecks where he has brown flecks and you have a deep forest colour that runs the circumference of iris, and he does not"

"Well, you are ever the artist noticing every minor detail."

"It is not just that, I know you—I know your face maybe better than I do my own, every line, every feature, everything. I have it practically memorized, I could sketch you in a minute," she told him confidently.

"Well, that certainly speaks to my crude features then. Well, it isn't any wonder you find my eyes preferable by comparison," he teased her in response, laughing at his own joke.

"I meant to say that I know your face by heart, not that I could do justice to it so quickly," she countered, not laughing with him but evenly in explanation.

"I know what you meant, I couldn't resist the opportunity of teasing you," he told her and the continued, "I rest my case in regards to the eye colour and simply say that she will be lucky indeed if she gets to keep them in their current shade," he told her, locking his gaze with hers for the longest of moments and she felt her heartbeat quicken and when she could take it not a moment longer she shifted her gaze to the baby in his arms.

The baby reached out then, clasping a hand around the swaddling blanket and gurgling a little.

"Is that a normal sound?" Emma asked him, looking to his face for assurance. The explanation of the traumatic birth that Isabella had told her had set her more on guard for this babe's health. She had never thought anxious thoughts with the others when they were babies—back then everything had felt so safe, so sure.

"Yes, Emma she was merely stretching a little,"

There was a long pause between their talking; Emma was focused on the baby watching intently to confirm his appraisal. It seemed he was indeed right, as the baby yawned and pulled her fisted closer to her mouth again.

"She is so impossibly tiny," Emma commented, the baby curled and unfurled her hand against Emma's finger and she was truly struck by the remarkableness of it all. "Yet she is so perfect just the same," she smiled and then asked almost absentmindedly, "Had you ever wanted children? I know you had always said you wished to remain a bachelor and to have Donwell go to Henry but secretly had you ever thought of it?"

"Well had you ever thought of children? I mean, I know once you grew older you had always intended to remain unmarried and care dotingly for your father. Surely there would have been a time when you were little when you put down your own dolls for a moment and imagined your own future household? I certainly remember being a boy, playing and imagining all the great games I would play with my own son—I wouldn't be like the other adults that were too preoccupied or disinterested –I swore it. Promised myself I would never get that old and boring, and I would always be playing childhood games," he chuckled.

"Ah, so that is what you are up to in those time when you are 'running the estate' –what you are really doing is riding about the estate, pulling minnows out the fish pond with a basket, running in foot races and playing conkers with the neighboring children," she laughed at the idea. She could almost imagine it in her mind's eye.

"Well, it was not only about games. I remember being away at Eton and thinking that I would not wish to send my own sons to boarding school; that I would make a living sizable enough to have tutors for them and then they would be able to remain at home learning in their studies and learning the affairs of managing the estate. So, yes I suppose there was a time when I envisioned those things. When my father died it was tremendously straining, I was not sure at that time how anyone might run an estate and have a family without having some part of it falling to neglect. I was, it seemed forever occupied with work, making sure John was studying and well set up, checking in with my Woodhouse neighbours, paperwork late in the evenings, morning rising early to direct the hired men. It was daunting work, exhausting in every way yet, something about the prospect was encouraging as if I were building towards something or for something—like leaving a legacy of some kind to pass on someday. In hindsight, much of my work in the early days of inheriting prevented the possibility of meeting possible suitable matches. I didn't want to be at some party in London, I wanted to be walking and inspecting my apple harvest, building relations with my tenants or setting up instructions for digging irrigation trench lines. And as a result, sometime later the childhood notion faded, I am not sure exactly when but the unlikely nature of that artificial future probably had something to do with it. I've heard it said that when one dream dies, another rises up to replace it. I think it must be true because I became focused on the idea of mentoring; young men that looked to me for advice—they are not my sons but I might have a similar impact in their lives—men like Robert Martin, young lads like Henry. It was at that time that I thought it would be best that Henry be my heir; that he could be raised up to run Donwell as capably as any of my sons might have."

"I was not so very long ago then, if the idea only originated with Henry being an alternate option, for he has only just turned six," she reflected wisely.

"How astute you are Emma, but it reminds me that you Emma are avoiding my question, as you did not answer it," he told her chuckling at her retort just the same.

"I am not avoiding it; there really is not much to say on the subject. Truthfully, I had never really considered it," she explained, "I think I always felt too childish myself, I mean it would be impossible or perhaps daft." She laughed at that, "I don't know. I had never felt the need to be married—well until we did get married. I never thought I would marry. I never really thought about children, not really –I've never really thought about any of it. I think it is right what you said, one dream dying and another taking its place," she offered. "I mean, for me, I never lived beyond my father. I never envisioned it in my imaginings of the future—strange as it seems now. In each dream it was always me and my father, happy and content, but for the run of the mill malaise or routine precautions to thwart malady," she smiled then, really thinking on it, "But when I think back on it now I see it, the impracticality of it, we were almost frozen in time, completely unchanging through the years. And yet, in my happy optimism, I just assumed I'd never live to see a day without my father. I was always doting on him, into his tender old age—I never stopped to consider that he was already rather old and that I would not likely die before him. I just wanted to be with him and care for him. I don't know why I never considered that. Even having lost my dear mama at a young age I should not have been ignorant of the possibility of eventually losing my papa too. "

She took a long pause, "And I realize now that that dream is over, that everything has changed, and if it is as you say where another dream must take its place I do not fully know where to start,"

"You start my dreaming another dream, I found for my own part it isn't a forced thing, you live life, looking around at all the things placed about you and somehow new ideas or notions arrive –Just like baby Emma, a fresh start and the possibility for a hopeful future, " he told her motioning to the small infant he still cradled.

"Well, they certainly are adorable," she told him, beaming down at her small niece, "babies that is, Emma perhaps is the most adorable of the collection so far," she teased.

"She likely inherited it with the name, I've heard the name 'Emma' bestows and happy optimistic personality and healthy glow on whoever is fortunate enough to bare it." He told her, his trademark grin in place.

"Well, adorable yes, but one must remember they don't stay so easy," she told him, ignoring the compliment entirely.

"You mean as children?"

She nodded, and she was near enough to him that he could see the motion without needing to turn his head.

"Well, certainly—especially if they take after their impetuous aunt Emma, half of my job if felt at times was spent pulling you out of my apple trees when you'd climbed higher than your governess' heart could withstand,"

"Oh I remember, I wasn't ever even so high as to warrant your help—not that it stopped you. It always spoiled my plan to harvest the apple nearest to perfection, as everyone knows the best apples are always on the highest branches," she affirmed,

"There it is then proof that children aren't always so easy as this," he said rocking his arms gently as he said it, the babe appeared to be asleep. "But then children have their merits too," George told her.

"Really?" she asked, "such as?"

"Keeping us young," he told her. "Keeping us childlike, that is if we will let them," he added.

"Really?" she asked him quizzically as if she didn't fully believe him.

"Umhum, well yes. Perhaps not my mother, she was always so controlling, so set in her ways and structured, but your mother, certainly understood the concept." he agreed "Do you remember? Do you remember what she was like? Do you remember the fun she always had with you and your sister?" he asked.

"No, sadly I do not recall it. That is one regret, try as I might I cannot remember her in my early memories – I know her face but only from looking at the portrait that was in the living room at Hartfield," she told him.

"I remember at one picnic, you would have been around two, your sister was perhaps seven or eight and your mother was playing with both of you in the grass—it is funny; at that age, people would say all sorts of things near me without a second thought. I think it was not until my father died that any had any sort of care or notice to watch their words. Certainly, at that time I was still viewed as a schoolboy, even if it would have bothered me to hear it, see to me I was almost grown and felt I had learned near everything there was to know—I had only just one more year before graduated Eton." He smiled as he spoke; she listened to his story, toying with the baby's hands and fingers as she did so.

"See the other mothers, were more like my mother; as your mother lay in the grass playing with you and Isabella they looked on as if she was crazy. But she was not crazy, she was like you are now, almost as if she hadn't grown up fully—and not in a bad way. She wasn't immature, nor daft or crazy like they speculated. It was refreshing, and it was just genuine, and I think the other ladies were simply jealous that they didn't know how to achieve it for themselves. It was like she had not been jaded or taxed too harshly by adulthood. It was like she hadn't forgotten what it was like, to be a child and to be at play. She was lovely, she was childlike and she still understood how to have fun; the two of you sisters were always so happy and undoubtedly had more fun than the other children, your mother certainly had more fun than the other mothers—all they could do was gawk and gossip—their own children likely looking on with jealousy as well," he chuckled.

He had her full attention, though the babe still held her finger; her eyes had not left him since he began describing his memory and her mother.

"I think you'd be like that, I can almost see it, you playing with dolls under the tea table or humming the wedding march sitting on the floor behind the curtains in the drawing room, shoulder to shoulder with a blonde ringlet hair child, " he laughed softly,

"You can't know it," she told him, resisting in words but not in spirit because secretly she could imagine it too, a little girl, all hers with starlight blue eyes sitting next to her as they laughed.

"Well, of course I cannot know it, I am not claiming clairvoyance. I am simply saying that I can certainly imagine it-and it doesn't mean it is fated to come true,"

"Very well," she said agreeably, the blonde child in her minds eye, tossed her curls as she nodded in agreement.

* * *

Here you lovely people are! I am really happy to see reviewers coming out of the woodwork! This chapter is the biggest yet, clocking in just under 6,000 words or 12 pages-all that to say please review, a lot of time went into this chapter and I want to know what you are thinking!

As always, give me feedback, ask a question or tell me about a typo you noticed.

Thanks!

PrettyPet


	19. London

**Chapter 19**

London

* * *

The blanket rustled as she shifted again for what felt the thousandth time. Each shift of the bedding sounded like loud cracks of thunder to her ears and needless to say she could not sleep through something such as that.

She wasn't even about to blame the bed or the bedding for each seemed perfectly comfortable to her.

She sighed, turned again.

Each time she blinked her eyes closed the image she had conjured of the blue-eyed blonde child reemerged against the backdrop of the darkness. Earlier she had been chasing butterflies across what appeared to be the field nearest Hartfield and then she was sitting on the patio settee on Donwell's terrace cajoling with a smaller boy who must have been the girl's little brother.

She snapped her eyes open quickly, it all looked too real to exact—almost too vivid to be merely imaginings. And yet when she opened her eye she was met with nothing but the darkness of the room and the sound of George breathing.

She rolled over once more and closed her eyes again.

This time the little girl held out a doll invitingly as if beckoning her to play too. The coy smile Emma could not deny looked very much of her lineage.

She snapped her eye open again, it was too much for her to keep in.

"Are you still awake?" she asked into the darkness, softly but a little breathlessly—half hoping he was awake to distract her and yet also not wishing to awaken him if he were asleep.

"Yes, and are you surprised? How is anyone to sleep with a spinning dreidel next to them?"

"I'm sorry," she winced.

"It isn't something to apologize for, may I ask what is on your mind,"

"You know me too well," she admitted. "I'm merely thinking of tomorrow," she told him but if pressed on it she might have admitted a preoccupation with a more distant future.

"Henry wants to sail boats in the park and I might have promised him I'd buy him a rather grand kite if it was not windy,"

"Kite flying in the park? Is that the same one that has the rowboats that John was telling us about after supper this evening?"

"Oh no, that is at a pond in a different park, the stream for the toy boats is hardly more than a small trickle, perhaps better called a creek,"

"Maybe we could pack a picnic," Emma suggested.

"If we are venturing to buy a kite tomorrow before going to the park then perhaps we might do a picnic at the park with the rowboats a different day, I think nothing is worse than warm sandwiches, that and carrying a heavy basket through busy London streets,"

"Yes, nothing is worse than carrying a heavy basket through busy London streets; except for carrying a heavy basket, toy boats and a very grand kite through busy London streets,"

"Well, obviously I had expected you would help by carrying the kite," he told her, "I'd not thought you'd lose the very self-sufficiency I've always known you for, I'd half expect to have to hassle you over the privilege to carry the basket of boats,"

"Well, I hadn't known I was invited, I suggested the picnic as a means to gain an invitation, I rather assumed I was unwelcome at the suggestion that we picnic another time, but I gather now that that was not what you meant by it," she admitted, sharing her motives freely.

"Well, you know that you are always invited," he replied, "—Now with your mind more at ease about the features of tomorrow, will you be able to sleep?" he asked gently.

She hesitated a brief moment, just long enough to begin biting at her lip lightly. "Well quite possibly if it was only tomorrow that I was roused by. But if you must have it, it isn't just tomorrow that has caused me to feel so very restless that it is impossible to sleep. And if you must know more still, it is mostly your fault that I cannot. You are the main reason because I cannot stop thinking about our blonde haired child that you described earlier. Every time I close my eyes it is as if she is staring back at me or wanting my attention or to play with dolls together, or to show me a butterfly or squealing at her little brother's shenanigans, I mean they were both sitting on the Donwell settee—the blonde girl and her little brother, I can see them as plain as day," she divulged.

"Well yes, you have always had an overactive imagination, you can hardly blame me for that" he replied, definitively almost as if he was unwilling to carry the conversation future.

"Well and then it has me thinking that perhaps I would like a small blonde girl to play with and teach all the tricks for getting extra cake and other fun things I've missed since childhood,"

His reaction was half a mixture between a surprised stiffen and a chuckle, which he stifled somewhat successfully with the edge of his index finger against his lip line. "Children are about much more than that and I am afraid there is much you do not understand about the process of begetting children, but do not fret about it and we may put this conversation aside. "

"Well, I don't believe I am entirely ignorant, Mrs. Weston told me that it has to do with affection, and if that it all that it is then I do feel affection for you, and you know that because I've told you about it before."

"Emma, not all affection is the same. We will leave it there, as I think it is maybe best if we talk about this at a different time," he told her flatly, belaying no emotion or sentiment.

"But I do tell you about my feelings, and you always refuse to acknowledge them as legitimate," she protested.

"Emma, this is not the time or place for this discussion," he told her succinctly and she imagined she had before her George Knightley the landowner and magistrate, instead of her beloved friend.

"It is never the time and place," she sighed out, thinking more of her own thoughts and feelings of late and the cowardice that always pressed her away from a decision at the last moment.

"I do not want either of us to say anything that would make the other upset," he offered, a softer tone more the one she was used to, gentle around the edges but still as direct in their point.

She bit her lip then, wanting to say everything on her mind all at once but steeling against the pain sensation and willing herself to be more sensible. For once in your life Emma be sensible, she thought to herself.

"When would be a good time?" she asked carefully hanging the words together as they came to her mind.

He seemed not to hear her at first.

"George, when would be a good time to discuss it?" she asked again.

"Yes, Emma I did hear you—I am not fully sure—maybe we can reconvene on the issue in a few months to reassess,"

"Reconvene and reassess?" she retorted, keeping at bay the measure of disgust she felt at the words.

"That's right," he offered sounding more confident in his own statement.

"Does it not sound to you more like a transaction between trades' people or a meeting of parliament?"

He took a very long deep sigh but did not say anything for the longest time. Only pressed his fingers against his temples, "Emma do not push me in this. I do not want us to say what will surely hurt the other, and you will needle me until I have no option but to say more than I know I should,"

"George, you mention not wanting us to say what would hurt each other but as I see it I have nothing to say that would hurt you, leaving me to believe that you have something to say that will hurt me." She paused for a long moment, carefully considering if she really wanted to know. "Please tell me, I won't mind if it is painful—"

He shook his head that he would not.

"Pray, tell me. I've always had the desire to know, regardless of the outcome,"

"I'll not do it. I'll say I'll not but you'll not have that. It is the story of us, isn't Emma? That I am made to do your bidding because you ask so sweetly," he told her. "I specifically asked you not to press me on it and in your own pigheadedness you do exactly as I asked you not,"

"Ah, is that the beginning of the wounding then? That I am manipulative and pigheaded—and you are certain you do not wish to hurt me? You appear to hold nothing back in your choice of words," she asked the higher notes sounding vain but only in a way that seemed bred of a manufactured haughtiness—as if to mask the underlying emotion of it.

"Yes, I am more than certain that I do not wish to hurt you and in addition I did not wish to spoil our time visiting in London, but you ask it of me and you are not easily refused—so you Emma will have your wish and please do not forget that I asked you to let it be and you would not have it," he told her sounding almost like a man in pain. "I will not in good conscience bring children into this" he motioned wildly between them with his hands. "this—this arrangement—you are right when you liken it to a business transaction or an act of parliament –for this it is not a real marriage and I'll not continue the charade by adding children to it. They deserve so much more than that—it would not be fair to anyone."

She thought she might be able to hold it all in but she swiftly began to cry. He was correct, what he had to say would hurt her.

"If you want to pass on tricks and enjoy watching something grow, then perhaps you may be placated by a puppy," he added in an attempt to soften the blow but it seemed to only shock her more because she couldn't find the will to meet his eyes any longer.

She batted a row of tears from her eyes and considered her words for a long moment.

Then she sat up in bed to look down at him, as if the position would gain her some tactical advantage, and she willed herself to meet his eyes. "For years there have been marriages that were nothing more than a business transaction, in essence, they were literally arranged, how few marriages are built upon anything else? Not everyone may be like John and Isabella—love right from the beginning, few are so lucky to be able to afford that—"

"Emma, I understand where you are taking your argument and I will stop you by saying that I care for you far too much to accept that from you,"

"Oh you say that but I am somehow still cast as the guilty party. And you—You with all your silly talk about dreams dying and new dreams! I thought maybe you would wish it—that it would make you happy and then how you talked of my mother as if she was the most wonderful saintly creature and then all but told me that I would be the same-you can't claim you did not put the very idea into my head and then to say—I cannot even repeat it –as if it would be some injustice to bring a child into this," it was her turn to gesticulate wildly between them.

"Emma, what we have may not be deficient for a friendship but it is inadequate for what is called a marriage and that cannot be denied and I'll not pretend differently,"

She rolled away from him then, as far away as the bed would permit, she would not say what it was that she felt well up in her heart. She wanted to say, Well, that must be said to be on you then, for I have done everything in my power to show you that I love you and you'll not hear it. But it was blaming statement and she knew to speak it out would do the damage he had spoken of earlier so she held it in.

Sharp sobs—ones she had not known since grieving her father in the first days of his death—escaped her but this time he made no move to comfort her.

* * *

Hey all, to all the reviewers who have kept with me during this incredibly long absence thank you. And for anyone that was concern about my health or safety, sorry to cause any undue alarm. I have been doing well, and I might be falling into an unrequited love scenario in my own personal life that has kept me a little too absorbed. Sometimes books are so much easier than real life but enough about me.

I am also sorry that my return brings such a deadbeat, low spirits feeling chapter. I hope you can see progress in what feels like a step backwards for our favorite couple.

Sorry for the long time between chapters, I have had moments of uncertainty over where the plot needs to go. I think I am on track again now. Let me know if you are still interested in reading this story.


	20. Sting

**Chapter 20**

 **Sting**

"Do not hide your wounds—for even flowers bloom within the cobblestone fractures and damaged fragments make up the most intricate mosaics. Promise me that you will never conceal your cracks, for I will only ever see them as places in which to fill with love."

* * *

She remembered the feeling well from when she was a small child. It had the same sensation, even if the source was different.

The sting she felt now had arisen out of thin air, one moment she was peaceable—hopeful even, she and her husband were conciliatory and without disagreement and in a fleeting moment it had suddenly set in, the sharp pain without even a hint of warning.

It hadn't had any warning when she was a little girl either. She had been playing happily in the tall grass before the underbrush of the tree line at Hartfield. One moment happy as any child and the next reeling back in pain, a burning sensation on each arm—crying did nothing to help the sting and she ran back to Hartfield panicked and with tear-stained cheeks.

It was a day off for Miss Taylor, so it was Cook that Emma ran too, curling her arms to her own chest in pain and fear.

"Ay, sweetheart it is nettle, stings like the dickens that," Cook agreed, after pulling one of the frightened girl's arms away from her against the child's attempt to cocoon.

"Don't ya worry—I'll get the right plant from the back garden and make you a poultice, that sting, and the swelling will be gone in a heartbeat and you'll feel right as rain—as if you'd never touched that awful stingin' nettle," Cook promised.

It had worked. Cook smears a nasty smelling green lumpy paste along both of Emma's arms and the burning stopped after a few long minutes.

If that sting had been against her arms, then the sensation she felt now almost felt as if it had evoked swelling and a burning around her heart. Any time she thought of the moment or the words that were spoken, a feeling of constricting or swelling arose. It felt just as tangible as the burn from the nettle plant but it was inflicted by no such source, and as a result, she had the inkling that there was no such poultice for this.

He had used the word _placated_ , she shuttered. He had spoken it as if she were a tyrant or some figure to be appeased. Or perhaps it was not appeasement in that sense but rather an attempt to mollify—not to appease her anger—no for she was not an angry person, but instead to mollycoddle or pacify her—as if he likened her to a child or infant lacking the maturity to be dealt with rationally.

And then to offer her a puppy, as if the idea was the same—to care for and raise a child was not at all similar to that of an animal. What must he think of her to even suggest it?

It hurt more on reflection than it had at the time. At the time she hadn't really considered the critiques and claims but the overall picture. He did not wish a family with her. He saw their marriage as only a façade.

"Auntie Emma, Auntie Emma," it was the tugging at the skirt of her dress that caused her to turn from where she stood looking out the window towards the bustle of the street—taking in nothing but looking occupied with watching those who passed by to the outside observer. Now she looked with her full attention at her eldest nephew.

She bent down to be eye level with Henry, seeing that George stood behind him from her periphery but not moving her eyes to take in more than his legs, "Yes?" she cooed happily, hoping her own eyes sparkled half as much as Henry's bright blue eyes did.

"Are you coming to sail toy boats with us? We are going to the big pond today with the rowboats, and I was hoping you would see the giant swan we saw there last time," he asked excitedly.

She wasn't sure if his uncle had put him up to in and she refused to lift her eyes to take in his face. She wasn't sure what would hurt more, his boyish grin suggesting that he had or seeing an expression of apathy? For what if he had not put Henry up to it—certainly that would hurt far more.

"Not this time Henry," she said softly, patting his head lightly in a soothing gesture.

"Awh, but Auntie Emma that is what you said last time," he pouted.

"Some other time Henry, I plan to work on my needlepoint and tell princess stories to baby Emma and spend more time with your mother—she is my only sister after all,"

"Ohh allllright," he sighed, "but it is your last day and I am afraid you won't get to see the giant swan, it is really the biggest one ever—you should have seen Little Georgie's face when he saw him—he was so frightened—Bella and I couldn't stop laughing!"

"You shouldn't tease your brother," Emma reminded, patting his head again gently, and standing to her full height, "I do hope you all have fun," she offered with a weak smile to the room at large—finally seeing John and little Bella and both Georges, one she looked past not wishing to take in his face and the other she watched squawking and struggling against his father as he helped him put on his coat—albit against the little boy's wishes.

He stopped her in the hallway between their room and the room where Isabella spent her days in bed. It was only her and Baby Emma at her hip, who were in proximity near enough to hear him.

"If we are at odds that is one thing but do not make the children feel it by keeping yourself removed from their company, or at least do not sequester yourself away on my account." He told her, his hand at her elbow but not in any fashion more than an action to bid her stay while he spoke.

"That you think I would is rather telling of your opinion of me," she told him, "I had actually wondered about staying on in London an extra week to be with my sister. The doctor will allow her light walking out of doors next week and I would wish to be here to support her and keep her company. Would you permit me that?" she asked.

"Of course, anything," he told her, and she fought back the wince.

"Then I am pleased," she said, almost an unintended impression of the Cole's eldest daughter who always seemed, to Emma at least, nine parts false for every one part sincerity. At present, she hated the hollowness of her own tone and felt it almost belonged to another person entirely.

"But I surmise it will not change the fact that you will not be joining us on today's excursion," he said flatly.

"That is correct, it is as I told Henry, I intend to spend time with my sister," she repeated before moving to glide by him to continue her journey to Isabella's bedside.

* * *

It the remaining day and a half of George's stay dragged on, then it was also true that the extra week he had conceded to dashed by at a rapid pace.

Isabella had been enjoying the last few days so much, they had visited and walked to each of her favourite parks and Emma even delighted Henry by witnessing the giant swan.

Emma had the privilege of meeting Isabella's friend, Mary Musgrove and her sister in law Henrietta—who had called on her, they were visiting London from Uppercross in Somerset and Isabella for the first time since Emma arrival received other company.

Their visit had been altogether entertaining as Mary and Isabella had a similar personality and seemed very content to trade stories on the topics of household sicknesses, precautions for avoiding illness, the most current information on the bringing up of children and the things mothers often missed out upon. Mary for her part was relieved to be visiting and having the afternoon away from her own busy family.

It seemed as if Emma's first week in London had been mundane and the second filled with variety and entertainment. It felt if nothing else that it was over too quickly. For no sooner had she gotten used to the empty sound of her own quiet room and sleeping alone, and then she was packing an readying herself for her trip back to Highbury— to Donwell and whatever it held for her.

Returning to Donwell felt effortless in its own right, as it the very place was an old friend welcoming her home. Her oldest friend seemed almost unfazed by her return from the week of absence and he was only at Donwell for a single day when she returned but he seemed unchanged as if they hadn't had a fight in London the week before.

He behaved so naturally that she didn't even think it was purposeful aversion when he was called away to Leighton Hall the day after her return. It was then that she took time to herself and after quickly realizing that she had had enough of her own company –put effort into connecting with her Highbury friends, Harriet first and then the effusive Ms. Bates, and Ms. Bates there was certainly more to say, for Ms. Bates herself had had far more to say than Harriet had. Harriet had helped with a Sunday school picnic but beyond that had little to report, but she was glad to see Emma returned and gladly accepted her invite to take tea at Donwell later in the week.

Ms. Bates was of even at a higher level of zeal and superfluousness—it would seem this was brought on by gratitude, or so Emma would come to find out.

"All of Highbury is overjoyed to have you back Emma," she promised, "oh and dear Mr. Knightley has been so kind to us these recent weeks as well—Oh and not that he isn't always kind but rather that his kindness, while you both were away in London, is far greater than we could have asked or even deserved. Truly far greater! He had seen to it, in advance even—he has such a presence of mind and is ever the gentleman. He had seen to it in advance that a Donwell carriage would bring us to the supper at the Allan's. Oh, and what a kind man your husband is for he said it this way exactly—he said that while you both were away in London, you would have no need for your carriage that evening " she told her. "Oh, and the wisdom and foresight he had, for it had rained all day and well into the evening—Mama was ill and alas I could not attend with Jane. But it was your carriage that allowed Jane to attend the supper party and what a kind thing for she is rather serious by nature and it is so important that young ladies have a chance to enjoy things like dinner parties. And to think of it because of Mr. Knightley's foresight she was able to attend without a drop of rain—not a single drop she said! It was such a kindness! Again far greater a kindness than we ever could have deserved but we were so grateful and Jane certainly enjoyed the evening with her friend Eliza, and I suppose it is like any relation but I always feel especially touched when a kindness is paid to a loved one, perhaps more than if the same kindness paid to me directly. We are grateful, so very grateful. "

"And Jane—oh if you don't mind me saying so—she did look so lovely and her dresses I know are not the latest style but she has such a lovely face and her expression is always so soft and genuine, she is such a darling girl our Jane—"

The testimony of Jane's look, personality and comportment railed on for far longer than Emma would have wished, followed by a retelling of the supper at the Allan's and the conversations Jane had taken part in, the menu and the decorations and then more superfluous thanks for the use of a Donwell carriage that permitted Jane to enjoy such a party.

It seemed that her gratitude overpowered any other sort of news from the town and Emma determined that she would wait until the next visit before enquiring after what she had missed while she was away.

It was late that evening when he did return to Donwell, supper was long over and the fire had long been left to crack and wane.

"I'm sorry for the delay," he told her.

She nodded and waived it off cordially, he had sent a rider with a message to the same effect—suggesting that she and the household not wait up—he would deal with his own horse if it came to it.

She noted that he looked tired.

"Are you alright?" he asked. The room was dim but she was quite certain he was removing his boots as he asked it.

"Yes, fine, thank you," she told him –but they weren't really.

For how could they be?

But they weren't any different either—for what had changed?

Not the circumstance—merely her awareness of how things really were. She had been ignorant of what was apparently their reality and he could not be blamed for that.

"Alright," he offered sounding somewhat unconvinced and she wondered to herself when she had become so good at reading him—or maybe she was full of her own self-aggrandized thoughts and all her estimations were, in fact, wild miscalculations. Yes, she remembered that feeling well—feeling so capable of arithmetic only to see the results after the sheet was scored and learning that believed answers were just that, miscalculations.

"It was a nice thing you did for the Bates, lending your carriage," she told him, if they were to be normal then she would have to be normal—silence was not her normal.

"Yes, Ms. Bates has not stopped thanking me, I'm almost regretful for the thanks and fanfare it has brought –but we were away and certainly not to be using it, it seemed the best things to offer it to their service for the evening. "

"I plan to visit Mrs. Weston tomorrow, our standing invitation to tea," she reminded him.

"I'm called back to Leighton as the matter was not fully resolved, I should not be near so long, perhaps early afternoon," he explained.

"Very well," she agreed,

* * *

Hello all, I wanted to make this chapter twice as long but realized it would likely take me another week to produce that and many have asked that my updates be a little faster. I love writing this story and I do plan to finish it. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.

Question time!

Tell me what you want to see happen in this story :) Tell me what parts you like best about Emma the book- like if you wanted to see one thing from the original plot in this story what would you want to see?

Thanks!


	21. Recover

Thanks for reading all, and thank you for the reviews. To the reviewer who asked about Ms. Bates vs. Miss. Bates –sorry! That was just pure laziness on my part, something overlooked. I will go back and do some edits shortly!

Also for those wondering why Knightley did not respond in chapter 19 to Emma saying I love you. She doesn't actually voice that thought it out loud. It was mixed in with a spiteful comment she holds back. I noticed I had a accidental single parentheses there which made it confusing, I went back and deleted the parentheses.

Thanks!

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Chapter 21

 **Recover**

I have used _italics_ to denote unspoken thoughts in Emma's head. I hope that helps! Enjoy!

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The weather had been beautiful; it had been the very same yesterday when she and Harriet brought baskets past the vicarage and then to the poor living in the surrounds. A pity Mr. Elton was not on the footpath, she would have encouraged him the take-up Harriet's basket, as it was rather full with fresh vegetables and Donwell apples, but alas he was not present and Harriet to her credit made no complaint about the arduousness of the task. It was so like Harriet to carry the burden without one spec of objection and to keep her joyful optimism throughout. The rare character trait as far as Emma was concerned, and one that most qualified her as a remarkable friend for Emma, but also recommended her to be a well-dispositioned wife to one such as the rector Mr. Elton.

It was such weather that prompted walking to the afternoon tea. The warm summer sun seemed as if it promised to last forever, in fact, she had not seen a single one of the wicked raindrops that had forced Jane to take the carriage a few weeks prior. There was scarcely a cloud in sight—which was not unusual, July was often the hottest month of the year, and altogether drier as a result. Emma almost wondered if it really had been such a downpour, Miss. Bates did have a tendency toward elaboration.

Everything was so green, it was almost sparkling, perhaps they had had rain, the freshness and vibrancy seem so much greater than she remembered before leaving to London.

These were her thoughts walking to Randalls—she wouldn't dwell on how far afield they were from her thoughts at night, tossing and restless, feeling as if her world was so far from where she'd wish it be, but overwhelmed with a dread that she would forever be powerless to change it. No, those thoughts stayed banished during the daylight hours and she, generally without much effort, cast her focus on lighter topics and more trivial things.

She must have looked her normal self as well, as her friend greeted her, boasting about how well she looked and how the London trip must have been a good one, the countenance of her face was said to be brighter and that she looked altogether healthier and more at ease.

Emma was glad that her dear friend did not speak on the reason for the past greyness, and the sorrow that had brought the lackluster to her spirit –for it went without saying and would undoubtedly have trudged up a swell of emotions. Yet, Emma was undeniably grateful to hear these things appeared improved by comparison.

The earlier hour of the day allowed them to sit comfortably at the patio set in the back garden. It was more of a luncheon than a proper afternoon tea, but it would have been much too warm to sit out later in the day, so Emma was well pleased with the timing that allowed her to stay outdoors and enjoy the freshness and vibrancy of the garden surrounding.

Mrs. Weston appreciated gardening, though few could claim to have Emma's robust sense of passion, purpose and innate gifting in the area of horticulture. Her garden was still rich with bright colours, effervescent greenery and Emma would make a note to ask her later for a cutting of her Passiflora Caerulea as it had a good deal more rich blue around the edges than any others she had seen.

They were well enjoying their time together.

"I have not seen near so many butterflies at Donwell, is it the lavender that draws them? Or what is the secret?" Emma asked

But she was not given an answer.

The answer was not given because she immediately distracted and Emma was greatly surprised by the source.

Few things had the ability to surprise Emma, since a young age she had been a confident predictor of many inconsequential things –such as whether Cook would serve Ham or Roast Duck at dinner. The clues were plain, it had rained and father kept asking for the fire to be made hotter. It was obvious! It would be Ham, for the bone and so that Mr. Woodhouse might be placated to have pea soup at dinner the next few nights, and it was always as she thought.

Frank Churchill standing next to their tea table in the garden part way through their tea had done just that.

"Frank!" She said out of turn, "Frank Churchill" she added, with a gentle grin to her friend Mrs. Weston, who she was certain had already forgiven the oversight.

"Sorry to interrupt, I came to let you know that my father is off to that estate out by Wickets and he really is too genteel to interrupt—it is perhaps apparent that I have not gotten my manners from him— but I knew he wished to say goodbye," he offered to Mrs. Weston, before offering Emma an apologetic smile.

"You would be alright here Emma if I were to be but a moment?" Mrs. Weston asked.

"Certainly, Frank will keep me company," she replied.

"I must apologize for missing your birthday party," he said outright, as his stepmother walked away and as he moved to take up the seat she had left vacant.

"That's alright, I understand you had other commitments and perchance a few other gatherings to attend in London," she offered, looking to take in his expression at her words about London.

"Ah well, I am sure as much as you missed me, it did not really detract from the enjoyment of the occasion, as I understand you were well celebrated. I heard that your husband gave you a rather impressive gift,"

"And who might have told you such a thing?" She asked.

"My stepmother, although it shouldn't signify. While we are on the subject, what would you say is the best way is to show one's affections? Is that the best way Emma, gifts?"

"I shouldn't say so." She said finally after pondering a long moment.

"No? Why not?"

"As anyone can pay money for anything—it isn't the most ardent from in my estimation, though a truly thoughtful gift will always convey far more than the monetary value, it is, in my opinion, the thought that counts," she confided.

"Really, and here I thought all ladies would think it was the most ardent form, what would you say then? Poetry?"

"Surely not!" she scoffed, "Although thinking of it now, I could certainly see my husband reeling off lines of poetry should he really be in love. Not his own poetry mind you, he isn't the type but perhaps something memorized and rehearsed that spoke to him upon initial reflection, since he enjoys reading, and has a keen memory for facts and such," she explained.

"Am I to guess that he has not been reeling off poetry," he stated.

She nodded to confirm what he said.

"Ah, well then that must not be his choice method," he laughed, "but in all seriousness now, if someone were to express true feelings—or rather they wanted you to know that their ardent feelings had not changed, what would be the best way?"

"Well, words naturally –just plain ones, not poetry. Simple, straightforward and clear." She told him.

"You are both boring and unromantic Emma Knightley," he told her flatly.

"It was you that asked me, Frank Churchill, you cannot both seek and spurn my advice! But if you're not satisfied perhaps spending time together—there is something about showing that you value her company that will do just that, although at times the opposite has a stronger effect," she admitted.

"Oh of course, how paradoxical! It would be that way," He scoffed, moving to stand from his chair.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

"My stepmother returns and I will leave you both to enjoy your tea," he told her with an exaggerated bow, taking a cookie from the tea tray as he stood.

"Good 'day" He offered.

"Good 'day to you as well," she repeated watching as he walked away, and then as he and Mrs. Weston crossed paths and he headed back towards the house and she toward the tea table.

Her friend gave her a sweet smile as she returned to the sitting area, it seemed both derived of gratitude and apology. "He really was pleased to say goodbye, though he is only to be gone the day, thank you for your forbearance," she said smoothly.

They talked about many things, Emma's recent trip to London, the news of Highbury proper, and of one of Emma's favorite topics gardening, Mrs. Weston asked if Emma had any tips for restoring her hyacinth to its former glory, she explained it seemed altogether more vibrant before she had taken over care of the gardens.

Emma relayed to her the tale behind the flower, she had read in a flower encyclopedia that it had a myth attached to its name, the flowers purportedly having grown up from the blood of a young hero Hyacinthus accidentally killed by the god Apollo. She also explained a tip she had heard and had abided by ever since. The former, former rectors' wife had said to clip the faded flowers but to be sure to let the leaves die back naturally to allow nutrition for the next year.

"I am planning to host a small gathering, dinner next week, just a few close friends, you and George, Bates and Jane Fairfax, Mr. Elton –though I have heard he may be away to London, and Harriet Smith and Mrs. Goddard if it pleases you," she added.

"Yes, that would please me, I am so very excited, and Frank Churchill? Will he be here then?"

"I plan to have it early enough in the week that he will still be with us, he is slated to return to Yorkshire next Thursday," she confirmed.

"It is all very exciting, my dearest friend throwing a dinner party, I did not think I would see it –for you and Mr. Weston have seemed to enjoy your solitude and tranquility at Randalls," she beamed, proud of her friend and maybe the smidgen of Emma Woodhouse that had rubbed off on her over the years of living at Hartfield.

"We are dear friends aren't we," Anne Weston smiled at Emma.

"Yes, the dearest of!" Emma confirmed her smiled so big it was breaking creases across her cheekbones. She really was blessed to have such a wonderful friend.

"And would you say, Emma, that we are like sisters?" she asked.

"Yes, I would say we are even as close as sisters—for my part, although we have made some progress of late, my sister and I have not been overly close through the years and thus friends always sounded almost a higher calling," Emma admitted. "All that to say I would think you closer than a sister for I have known you all my life and truly felt kindness and companionship throughout it,"

Anne smiled at her with big watery eyes, Emma felt pressed to ask her, "Why do you ask?"

"Well we are as close as sisters, or else what I tell you next would not be seen as proper. As we are likened to sisters, and because I haven't a sister in the way of blood, I shall tell you. I had not thought it possible after the first little while but I am pleased to say that we are finally with child," she said, and her smile was so bright Emma thought it might break into a million pieces of starlight.

"You—you are expecting?" Emma repeated, her own eyes filling with tears but not the same kind that rimmed her friends' eyes.

Her friend nodded happily, "No one knows, but for you, my husband and myself," she repeated looking at Emma with big bright eyes.

"It's—it's—it is wonderful news," Emma told her and at first her friend thought the tears were just the same tears of joy that were brought on by excitement and comradery.

Then her friend sniffled and whisked an errant tear away before another fell and took its place.

"Emma, are you sure you are quite well?" her friend asked her tone rich with concern, she was clearly coming to the realization that all was not well with the petite blonde who sat before her.

 _His words to her that night were hitting her full force. "I will not in good conscience bring children into this" he had said, his point emphasized by the way he motioned wildly between them with his hands._

Emma shook her head to rid herself of the thought, "Truly! It is the most joyous of news," Emma nodded, her face breaking in the pain of what was reeling in her mind.

It wasn't even jealousy, no never.

Never that! She'd never stoop so low as to feel jealous over a friend's happy situation.

"Are you alright?"

Tears burst out freely then and she brought her hands to cover her face. "I'm sorry, I swear that I am most happy for you—I don't even begin to have the right words—" she hiccupped out a sob, talking was making it worse, "to—to properly congratulate you,"

"Darling, something is the matter and I don't know fully what it is but I do know that it is something," she told her softly, moving closer to her to gently rub circles on her back. It used to calm her down when she was little, a scraped knee or bruised elbow – Anne felt almost if she had been a mother all her adult life thanks to Emma, and yet she was only now expecting her first child.

 _The way his voice had cracked slightly as he spoke the words that night, belaying his emotion and the truth of what he was saying would have undone her then had it fully sunk it—and it came flooding back violently now, "this arrangement—you are right when you liken it to a business transaction or an act of parliament –for this it is not a real marriage and I'll not continue the charade by adding children to it."_

"I thought of our daughters playing happily together—I don't know—it must have been a thought that snuck in when I least expected it for I surely had never thought about such a thing before I was married and now that I am –I – I am sorry, see I'm ruining it—I am ruining everything—it is your happy news and I am ruining it with crying so—" Emma acknowledged but it only served in causing her to cry harder.

"Shh—" Anne soothed.

"What you must think of me! I – I am wrenched – I'm so sorry—but I promise it isn't anything you'll think, I swear to you I'm not jealous or seeping with envy," she promised "anyone hearing this and thinking about it would be likely to think that I am and I would not blame them for I know exactly how it looks! But you dear friend must believe me; it isn't that. " She explained in quick panicking breaths.

"It's all right; I wasn't thinking any such thing. You are hurting and that is all a good friend cares about,"

"It is such a happy moment and I've spoiled it, and I'm sorry—forgive me? I am so sorry I can—cannot find my composure," Emma told her and then the sobs got more pronounced instead of better.

"It's all right," Anne soothed once more, "I think I understand something of your situation, and I'll encourage you to say that you are still very young and in many cases I have heard that these things take a little time to get right—you'll be in my situation soon enough, I do not doubt it,"

 _She would not be for he had said it so adamantly and so convincingly, "They"—their children he meant—deserved so much more than she could ever give them, so much more than their façade of a marriage he had meant—and then he went on to say that it would not be fair to anyone._

Emma shook her head miserably, sobbing more, into her hands for she still had the sensibility to be fully mortified by her emotions.

"It won't be" she said urgently.

 _He had offered her a puppy, in lieu of a family._ She wasn't fully sure she would ever be able to forgive him for that.

She told her again with more detail, "It won't be alright, I don't know how it could be—everything is wrong—nothing has been right since my father died! How could he leave me here?" Emma seemed frantic.

Anne Weston took up her friend's arm and began moving her towards the house. The girl was not herself; she was completely overwrought and what had started out as a barren woman's sadness over a barren womb had spiraled into a far darker territory.

"How could he die? He had been well, nothing out of the ordinary; he had not even called on Mr. Perry in weeks. He was perfectly well and in near perfect health and then he died. He died leaving me here and this isn't anything like I had planned –I had thought to care for him into his old age and he just left me here! How could he do such a thing?"

"Emma, I need you to calm down now," she said with a gentle tone but a stern command to it as well, similarly to how one might address an out of control child.

"Frank!" She called, up the stairs from the entryway of the estate parlor. "Frank, I need your help with something promptly," she added, appearing calm despite the chaos.

"Maybe I should have listened to Isabella. Do you think I should have listened to Isabella?" Emma blew her nose loudly on a kerchief offered to her by a wide-eyed maidservant; pausing only long enough to do so before continuing her monolog. "Were you upset that I didn't inquire of your advice? What would you have said if I had asked you for advice before I had agreed to be married? Would you have recommended London instead? I have been a deplorable friend! I am so sorry—I see now that I should have asked you," she planted her face into her hands and sobbed fully, her lungs burning for lack of air between the sobs that wracked her body and the questions she churned out in rapid succession. "I should have asked you, but it had been so many months and you were married and I thought of your life as not having need of interference from—"

"Hush now, Frank is coming down the stairs, you'll not share my secret and you will begin finding your composure," her friend said softly but directly, giving Emma's shoulders a sharp squeeze.

"She is not well; can you take her home on your horse? I feel the fastest way would be best and then inquire of the head of staff if there is some laudanum on hand, I know Mr. Woodhouse always kept a few doses on hand at Hartfield, I do hope that Donwell has the same reputation for preparedness. I don't have any here or I would send it with you," she instructed.

"Does she need a doctor? Should they fetch one? We could send a rider the opposite direction to town to fetch—" Frank Churchill began and then started to suggest a solution.

"No, she is not that type of sick—simply overtaxed and overexerted, I haven't seen her like it since childhood but I think a night's rest will put her in better spirits," She told him confidently.

"Very well, keep her calm and I'll return as promptly as I can with Perseus," he promised.

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Well, thoughts? I need some reviews! I just got over the most hideous cold- I was so zapped for energy, even writing seemed impossibly draining. Here you are! I have the next few chapters written in my head which isn't quite the same as having them on paper!

As always, review with things you like, fixes you see that are needed, questions you have, things you want to see more or less of, guesses of what you think will happen next- honestly anything! I love hearing from you all.

Cheers!

PS. I am entertaining the idea of writing an Emma/Jane Eyre crossover next (I just watched the Toby Stephens BBC one on Sunday). Thoughts? Yay? Nay?


	22. Strained

This chapter is dedicated to EngLitLover, who although just started reading has been reviewing each chapter she reads. I can't tell you how much that means and I love seeing how you were responding to the past chapters! It is a truly great person that takes the time to respond before jumping to the next chapter, I am so honored!

I was feeling a little bit down after not seeing a big response to the new chapter, wondering if having too big of a gap between posts had lost people's interest. I had a lovely PM from Laina Lee who also writes Austen fanfiction.

I just wanted to publicly thank all that faithfully review. Thanks for the encouragement to write.

I so appreciate it.

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Chapter 22

Strained

Strained, that was how she felt. In fact, a truer word could not have been found, as it did justice to her entire being; her physical form stretched, wrought like a kite string in a sudden gust of wind-reaching up higher and higher still-almost painfully at the outer limits, and her mind and emotions pressed flat and pulling in the opposite direction of something-what exact thing? That she did not fully know, but she had actually reflected on it, she would describe the sensation as a rider pulling back on the reigns to stop a frantic, out of control horse.

At present she was stretched up, against the gentle morning breeze and from tip toes to her finger tips the muscles and ligaments almost remembering the elongated shape they were drawn into while peeling wall paper months before. The balls of her feet perch at the top of the ladder and she told herself she was graceful enough that she ought to have no fear of falling. And for the most part she was not afraid, it was only at sharp moments, when the chosen article was freed from the branch with a violent sounding snap that she would teeter slightly, and only very slightly for her balance would be restored almost instantaneously. You just could never predict when one was to let go, she thought to herself silently. For if that could be predicted then certainly her balance would have been unwavering.

But alas, it would never be predictable and in those mere seconds, her heart would skip just a little, before embracing the normal pattern once more. And she wouldn't speak it aloud to anyone but for those fleeting moments she was aware at how alive she was and felt, as if the other moments were grey and dingy somehow by comparison.

Well, except for when she spotted another prized article-bright and gleaming like a star when the morning sun glinted off it!

"What are you doing Emma?" he asked, sounding very much his old self, and by that 'old' self she meant the one from days long gone by, he sounded like the man she knew when she was a young girl and he'd relegated himself the sole proprietor of all things sensible and with the chief responsibility of dolling out wisdom and better sense to those less fortunate, namely Emma Woodhouse.

"I am picking apples," she offered, sounding so drab as she spoke it, it almost enhanced the obviousness of his question. For what else could she be doing, stretched towards the sky, standing on the tallest ladder in Donwell's apple orchard with a basket, containing four perfect apples plucked from the highest of branches, hanging against the second highest rung.

His face, though she only looked at him for the briefest of a moment, revealed his regret at the wording of his first question, "For what purpose are you picking apples? We have employees to do that, and I can see you are trying to pick the ones from the highest branches, but really Emma you aren't supposed to stand on the top rung like that, it really isn't safe," he told her.

"Everyone knows the highest branch have the apples that taste the best," she said, disregarding his mention of the method-she wasn't alarmed, nor should he be for her sake.

"It is a wives tale, a myth Emma -if you were to read a book about horticulture- never mind that isn't the point! You look liable to break your neck, and I really would prefer if you stepped down a rung, the top is meant that act as an aid for balancing as one's shins press against it."

"I only need eight or maybe ten for good measure," she insisted, ignoring his request that she step down to a lower ladder stair.

"And for what purpose are you needing eight or maybe ten for good measure?" he asked, and if she had looked down, which she had not, then she would have seen the slight bite of his lip in annoyance or possibly anxiety, and the fact that he moved a full stride closer to the ladder, as if to be ready to catch her but not so close that he wouldn't be able to move if she fell the opposite direction.

"I am making a pie for the Westons," she told him, her voice turning up to reveal a pleasant sound, excitement and a lightness that suggested an almost carefree optimism.

"A pie? And you, are making it?" his was quizzical, he had never known a fine lady to make anything but intricate stitch-work patterns, decorative pillowcases and doilies. Food items? Never, that was reserved for the cook or the help.

"Yes, the cook at Hartfield when I was young allowed me to learn the art of pastry," she explained, and he didn't comment on that fact that she was young still, he thought better of it. "It is really a good deal simpler than I thought, the right amount of flour, the right amount of lard-" she teetered again as the apple released from the branch. Mr. Knightly startled reflexively, lurching forward almost mirroring her movement.

She giggled, perhaps at his reaction, he was not sure, and sometimes he felt she was such a chit, and this was one of those times, as she talked on easily as if nothing was the matter and as if she wasn't in peril standing atop of a two meter tall ladder. "And an egg, cold water and a pinch of salt. Cook used to let me help with pastries all of the time, I am quite confident I should be able to make a great pie. The real trick is making sure the pastry dough is rolled thin enough, that is where the real technique is and if I am out of practice I am sure the cook at Donwell will allow me her help. She does seem very nice and a talented hand from the pastries I have tasted from her pursuits." Emma informed him.

"You are making the Westons a pie. Are you making it for any particular purpose?" he probed, if she wanted an inroad into the conversation he'd do his best to give her one.

She gently shook her head.

He sighed, "because Emma although I don't make a habit of gleaning or relaying the tittle-tattle of servants; my overlooker William Larkin is a different matter. He approached me, hat in hand looking very grave to have to speak at all, let alone to confide that he had seen you being dropped off with a deal of hast by Frank Churchill."

She stopped picking, and gave him her full attention, a slight pink colouring making its way to her cheekbones and nose. She nodded, "That is right, he did bring me home," she agreed easily before returning the pick another apple, perhaps less scrupulously than before-for suddenly she wanted done the task so that she could leave her perch.

"And were you crying Emma? Larkin described your visage as looking blotchy and as one who was in or had recently been in tears," he continued.

She hastily picked two more apples and began the motions of climbing down from the ladder. Ignoring his question for the longest of moments, she didn't want to think about it.

"Were you crying when he brought you home?" he asked directly, and she found herself standing directly in front of him as she turned around after descending from the ladder, and he took a full step back - and action she perceived wrongly, and one he'd done to allow himself to see her face plainly, as having a full head and shoulders taller required him to do so in order to see her expressions at a natural angle. Surely with her personality he would be able to read the information as it appeared on her face, she had never been one with the ability to cloak her countenance from portraying her every thought and emotion.

She wavered slightly, before willing herself to meet his eyes, "Yes-yes but it was not on account of him, he was only doing me a service, a kindness really, a chance to preserve whatever good opinion public opinion the public might have left of me, to protect me from the opinion of others that might look on, to keep me from being laughing stock," she assured.

"So I shouldn't be upset?" He asked, perhaps a little too bluntly to be believed impartial, it was as if some small part of him was already upset at the notion.

"Certainly not with him, or with me, I don't think," Emma offered, lowering her eyes to the basket in her hands.

"And what was it that had you so upset that you needed Frank Churchill to provide you a ride home?" he asked her then.

"It is a private matter," she told him, raising her eyes to his.

"A private matter?" the appall was etched in his tone, as if he thought she said it just to goad him or dodge the question.

"It is not mine to repeat, " she told him before changing the subject, "I must be making them a pie as a thank you-for I had not thought of it that way but on reflection I think I must have thought it a way to show my gratitude, and it will force me to recover from my embarrassment to bring it to them, for one cannot remain embarrassed forever and Mrs. Weston is hosting a dinner party next week and it couldn't be too soon to get over the shame of it," Emma said, talking more to herself then to him.

"And it doesn't go deeper then that?" he inquired.

"They are to have a party, can you believe it?" she said, ignoring questions she didn't like or wish to reply on.

He sighed.

"It will bring great joy, and I am certain it will be such great fun-I didn't suspect I would see it, my dear friend every bit the hostess! I will bring the pie over as soon as I am able," she continued a bit absentmindedly switching topics again.

"You cannot just avoid conversations you do not enjoy. Because really Emma, I was trying to decide if I should have words with him, with Frank, and if I should what it was exactly that I should say,"

"No," she insisted, "It is not like that," she promised him. She shook her head a pained expression taking up residence on her face "No-I cannot imagine that you could even think that, no you shouldn't have words with him, he was only doing me a favour,"

"And someone else could not have done you this favour?"

"No one else was around!" she exclaimed, her voice jumping into a higher octave in her defense. "Mr. Weston was off to visit an estate and would not have been back until later that day, you -you were gone," she reminded.

"But surely you could have taken their carriage?" he persisted, lending insight into the fact that he had considered things a long while this morning before speaking to her directly, identifying all the places where she might have made a different choice in his estimation. "Mrs. Weston could have accompanied you in their carriage," at that was voiced as a statement, rather than a question.

"I don't know. I am not even sure that they have more than one, I know that Mr. Weston took one carriage for his trip as it was a ways off and at his age he does not do for riding anything more than short distances. I do not know what their situation is at present, whether they have another or not. I did not ask this. I was not partial to the decision making yesterday. All I know is that I could hardly bare the thought of walking disconsolate, arm and arm the entire distance of 2 miles from Randalls to Donwell, which was what I was imaging prior to the offer of a ride on horseback. I was so very relieved when this option was presented, that I could hardly tell you what the other options under consideration were. I was merely told to try to calm down and to let Frank take me home and that is what I did. When I arrived home the household was not ignorant of my-my state of mind and they were all very kind and they made a bath ready and I had a bath. Afterwards Lily braided my hair and then Cook brought me warm milk with honey and almond cookies before dinner. And they were the best cookies I think I have ever had, and before I knew what I had done I am embarrassed to say that I had eaten six of them. Is that enough of a testimony of my afternoon or are you still desiring more from me?"

* * *

She was glad she had brought the pie over earlier last week and had resolved the sense of awkwardness one felt when in a situation as she had been. First were always the worst and once past them one had lesser anxiety. It was good that she had seen both Frank and her Friend Mrs. Weston or she would have been facing the initial awkwardness now. Instead she felt near enough to comfortable to feel rather at ease amongst the guests and whenever anxiety or a sense of self consciousness began to press she changed her focus from herself (ego and pride) to others who perhaps could be made more at ease. Jane Fairfax for instance.

Jane seemed almost ignored by the others, not intentionally maybe, Mrs. Goddard and Harriet Smith could hardly be responsible for the had told Mrs. Weston that they would arrive slightly later than the others, the men had gone out of doors to see Mr. Weston's trout pond— he was very proud of it— and Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates were fussing over Mrs. Bates, bringing her a tea, having a side table for her cup brought in, fetching a lap blanket, though Emma thought it was plenty warm enough. In the summer it might be more likely for the old woman to succumb to too hot a temperature especially with warmth of the day, the tea and a blanket! She did not voice it and instead turned her full attention to Jane.

"I have heard that you are very fond of music. Would you like to play a duet with me? We can consider the selections and see if there is a thing or two that we both know well," Emma offered and Jane seemed pleased by it because she nodded and wordlessly smiled her agreement.

They had found quite a few songs that both knew well enough and Emma only laughed when she herself played an error—which was occasionally but she never practiced and was fortunate to be even half as good as she was, for her aversion of practicing had not been newly acquired but rather a lifelong endeavor.

Miss Bates and Mrs. Weston had come over to sit nearer. And so had Harriet and Mrs. Goddard when they arrived, so by the time the men joined them they really had quite a crowd.

Unlike some, Emma seemed to have fewer foibles the more people were watching and Jane, well Emma had yet to hear her make a mistake either in the playing or the singing of any of the songs.

"Do you know Robin Adair? It is too high for me I am not a true soprano but if you will sing it, I can sing harmony and play," Emma asked pausing for just a second until Jane readily agreed.

What's this dull town to me

Robin's not near

What was't I wish'd to see

What wish'd to hear

Where all the joy and mirth

Made this town heaven on earth

Oh, they're all fled with thee

Robin Adair

What made th' assembly shine

Robin Adair

What made the ball sae fine

Robin was there

What when the play was o'er

What made my heart so sore

Oh, it was parting with

Robin Adair

But now thou'rt cold to me

Robin Adair

But now thou'rt cold to me

Robin Adair

Yet he I loved so well

Still in my heart shall dwell

Oh, I can ne'er forget

Robin Adair

"Bravo, oh it is the finest of songs and sung with so much convincing emotion Miss Fairfax and what wonderful playing Mrs. Knightley, it was so well done, may I request another?" Frank Churchill congratulated, "Do you know that one about the solider leaving— the name escapes me at present?"

Jane was staring at him, wide eyed and nodding, Emma did not know the one he was referring to.

"I'll allow you both to take a turn," Emma excused herself and moved to stand next to the piano.

They played that one and then Jane insisted Emma return for another that Emma hadn't thought of since playing it as a young girl— it was a upbeat Scottish song about a lover returning.

Frank said excitedly with zeal and upbeat speech, his words almost saturated with laughter, "That was such fun! Do you know the one about the traveler missing home?"

"No, I think they have played and sung enough for one evening," Knightley interrupted.

"Surely one more song would not harm any thing," Frank posited, sounding more good natured and innocent than disagreeable.

"Jane has had enough, can't you hear that her voice is starting to wane? She sings so clearly and at such an octave and with such impressive volume that she is bound to tire from exertion but despite her obvious training you can tell she is growing hoarse, if Emma wanted to play and sing for you I would not stand in the way," he said flatly.

Frank shook his head, "It was not a selfish motive, I had hoped we all could keep singing and having such fun, I meant no harm to Miss Fairfax's voice, alas we will be entertained in some other way now," he agreed but the way he dropped his eyes suggested his had taken the dressing down rather personally.

Emma felt she might have known something of the other man's motives, for it was in the way that he said 'if Emma wanted to play and sing for you I would not stand in the way,'— his tone or perhaps the inflection was slightly skewed, she could tell by his voice, even if others could not have, that he meant something greater by it than was initially obvious.

"We might play a game," Emma offered excitedly, a bit of a rouse but wanting to take the focus off of Frank and his genuine sounding embarrassment.

"Oh, we very much like games, don't we mother?" Miss Bates said loudly, so the nearly deaf woman might have hope of hearing her.

"What shall we play? Do you have any idea which type of game, Emma?" Harriet asked.

"We shall consult our hostess, I think" Emma said fully pleased the diversion had been effective in turning the tide.

"Ah, we have a new game of alphabet squares, if you are marshalled into pairs of two you will be able to play on teams and more of the party may enjoy the game, Mr. Weston and I will sit out with anyone else that would prefer conversation to the game, " she stated.

It was a ruthless game Emma realized part of the way into it.

She was paired with Miss Bates who, despite her effusiveness with words, was not a great mind for such a game and had in each of her turns put up small low scoring words such as 'cat' and 'dig'.

She understood just how intense a game it was when Knightley shot down her attempt. 'Allium' which was the Latin name for the common onion, and would have been high scoring for the 'u'.

"It doesn't count, since it isn't English," he insisted.

"It's a plant name, the correct name," she retorted.

"All scores must be in English, it says right here in the rules," he handed the card from the front of the box to her. "Your team doesn't collect any points this turn,"

Worse still when she had mistakenly misspelled the word interrupt 'interupt' by missing one of the 'r's and for that Jane, George Knightley's highly capable partner, called it out—called Emma out really. Gaining the points Emma would have scored with the wrongly spelled word for her team. They were already ahead by a large margin, thanks to high scoring words like Jane's 'Zephyr' or George's 'Mixture'

Frank and Harriet Smith were no better off for their efforts— though both were so agreeable and jovial it would have been hard for anyone from the outside looking in to tell that they were in fact losing.

Emma grimaced more as the game progressed, she was not having fun.


End file.
